The Chains of the Chandelier
by Amplesound
Summary: Set three years after the terrific events of the Phantom of the Opera; Christine is returning to the Opera House for one final performance in memory of a very dear friend. The Persian comes in tow and the Phantom is not yet dead. All the while, the Chandelier hangs on by the skin of its teeth.
1. Chapter 1

**So h** **ello. This is my first Opera fanfic. I've pulled** **from Kay's work in reference to Erik because I found it easier, to be honest. I'm not so talented so as to be able to just slip into his weird, spidery goodness from Leroux.** **I've also aged Christine a tad because following Leroux and Kay; Christine is like 2 and he's like 100. And I'm not brave enough a writer to be cool with that. So I hope this story somewhat takes flight.**

* * *

Nadir opened the door of the underground lair to the sound of a melodious tune, riddled with emotions he could not place.

With music coursing through the walls and filling the emptiness around him, it seemed as if the opera house itself was a ghost.

Three long years since Christine, Raoul and Nadir had taken flight. Three long years and the music had yet to change. It would appear, Nadir found as he rounded a corner to the source of the music, that life had moved on without the Phantom – finding him exactly where he had left him…three long years ago.

"Erik?" Nadir called softly, then more loudly until at last he realised Erik had probably heard him but wanted to finish his tune first. Nadir smirked; the man hadn't changed at all…the monster, though? Nadir wasn't so sure though he had yet to hear of any stories.

"Daroga." Erik's familiar voice wafted over from the organ, pulling him from his reverie, the music having long since stopped though its presence still rang in the small corners of the house.

"I hadn't expected to see you so soon." he told Nadir ironically, "Or at all…"

A long, slender hand reached out for a beautifully calved, porcelain mask that lay atop his organ. He placed it upon his face and rose gently, turning to Nadir to reveal to him this smoke and mirror face – laced with melancholia. Captivating with its permanent sadness.

Nadir could not recall having ever seen it before. Post-departure, he concluded.

"You are still the same." Nadir answered him dryly when their eyes finally met.

"No." Erik said evenly, drifting from his organ with a spectral grace to pour Nadir a glass of whiskey. Upon offering it to him and having it declined, he continued, "No, I'm a very different man."

He drank a very small sip of his oaky whiskey before placing it atop a small wooden table and forgetting about it. He was still deathly thin but this new mask of his, it gave way to a vulnerability Erik had never used to allow in the past. Now it had a certain appeal, providing a certain charm to compliment his confidence and ghostly presence.

"Well," Nadir dropped his shoulders, "...you look well. The mask suits you, for lack of a better word."

Erik scoffed. "All masks suit the ghost."

Nadir raised his hands as if to put Erik in a frame and the skeleton of the man gazed back with his hands behind his back, puzzled, no doubt, as Nadir squinted at him.

"But this one. This is one is good."

"Ah," Erik waved his hand carelessly, "I made it after you all left. The last, lonely friend. Where did you go? You never said."

Nadir sighed,

"Back to Persia, back to Europe…back and back again."

"Is your soul at ease?" Erik asked curiously.

"It wonders." Nadir shrugged, "It is not whole. It hasn't been whole for quite some time now."

"Many years." Erik muttered thoughtfully, cocking his head as he turned a way to run a long, thin finger across his keys, "Neither has mine."

With that, both men met in the middle. A mutual understanding flickered between them and Nadir felt himself relax as Erik sat himself back down at the organ, flexing his fingers across many, many keys before he gently began to play once more, note by note.

A tune most fitting to the gentle upset that had settled over Nadir.

The events of the Paris Opera House haunted him still. The torture chamber; Bouquet's death; the Count De Chagny; his brother, the Viscomt; his love, Christine; Erik's dark and desperate rampage right up until it crumbled down around him. He was pleading for mercy and redemption at Nadir's feet not long after Christine and the Viscomt had fled. He had loved wholly then.

Nadir had never truly been able to shake the despairing pity or its ghosts, so he had left.

In fact, the sole reason for his return was duly for the fact that the past had come to find him. Christine and Raoul had found what little peace they could whilst Nadir and Erik had been left to wallow in the wake of it, never having found their own. Least of all Erik.

"I met them again, Erik." Nadir heard himself say quietly, "The Viscomte and…(his wife…) Miss Daae. I met them about a year after they'd left. In Sweden. Who would have thought?"

He let his memory come vividly to life as he recounted his tale. Erik never stopped playing but the sudden jerk of his head at the mention of young Miss Daae's name told Nadir that he was listening intently.

"The Viscomte has grown – he's got broader shoulders. Specks of grey are coming out in his beard now, you'd laugh at the difference. Christine sang like the angel you taught her to be on the night I met them. Her voice reminded me of you. You'd taught her well, my friend."

Erik smiled gently behind his mask but said nothing – all Nadir got was a quiet nod.

"It was that night, in fact," Nadir continued, "that I decided I ought to come back and find you. There had been enough time to heal, by then. Or so I thought. She -" there came a slight pause in the music, "sends her regards."

Erik stiffened but continued to play. Nadir could see how the thought of receiving any kind of 'regard' from anyone was baffling. To be fair, Nadir could understand how, despite his actions and understanding of their stifling nature, Erik might come to expect a little more than a sending of regards – especially from the woman whom he had been prepared to lay down his life and throw caution to the wind for. But the fairness continued, Nadir had not finished,

"She said it with heart, Erik. So much heart…I think she might have meant something I lack the understanding to ascertain. Perhaps you do?"

But Erik made no move to explain if he did. As Nadir gazed at the slender back of the Phantom, a sudden pain took a hold of his heart.

"The Viscomte caught an illness while on an expedition to the North Pole. He has been very sick…" he told Erik softly, aware of how he looked up abruptly but didn't look at him. How the music stopped almost instantly and left an eerie echo while his fingers remained in a splayed position, almost in a caress.

"Coughing sickness…" he explained, "He caught a cold and it never left. Before long, blood started spotting his handkerchiefs. After one of the most spectacular nights I have been to in a long while, he collapsed upon the stairs outside of the stage doors while waiting for Mademoiselle Daae."

Erik had now gone completely still, his hands resting in his lap with an impeccably straight posture with a tailcoat that hung languorously over the edge of the seat. A barrier.

"And?" he enquired coolly.

"Well we took him to a hospital – the best of them all."

Erik slowly turned,

"And?"

"They tried and tried, Erik. It was a long night." The Persian felt his shoulders sag and his head droop at the heavy memory; Christine clutching him with such desperation that it cast her back to the days of a child, "He died – I imagine he'd had the sickness for a long time before I came to find his bloodied handkerchiefs all over the place. Wasting away in front of us and no one dared to see."

Erik was quiet a moment. He appeared to be shaking, his hands curling in and out of fists before he took to the organ once again, slowly but determinedly.

"Foolish boy!" he growled.

"Erik! The man is dead – have some empathy!"

Erik stopped playing abruptly and rose in fury, such was his presence and power that Nadir still trembled to behold his might.

"I charged that boy with Christine Daae's life after giving my soul to the Devil to let her go. Now he went off and died and she's alone, Daroga!" then Erik settled, seating himself down once more, the rage visibly leaving his body, "Pity; here I wait so patiently for death and yet it takes the best of us."

Nadir took a shaky breath in,

"Perhaps it is for a good reason. The funeral is to be held in Sweden but having met here at the Opera House, it was the Viscomte's dying wish that she sing here once more. Another surprise."

Erik had gone deathly silent and very, very still. The music had stopped, leaving a hollow echo in the room.

"Erik?" Nadir enquired carefully.

"Suppose he thought me dead…" the ghost whispered into the darkness.

Nadir nodded,  
"Perhaps. This Opera House is also just as beautiful with or without you in it. I believe you were the furthest thing from his thoughts when he requested she do this. He might very well be rolling in his grave now."

"Christine is coming back?" Erik asked to clarify, turning to Nadir without having heard a word. Nadir nodded only once, eyeing Erik up cautiously.

"I might have let the news regarding the Viscomte quietly slip away and Christine along with it if only it hadn't concerned her return to the Palais Garnier. It would hardly have been my concern or my business but now that this development has been made clear you and her are now both in my charge." Nadir sighed, "Three long, long years and I come back to what I was trying to leave behind."

Erik was still blank, still without words or movement. Then suddenly, like lightening – quicker even, he was on Nadir.

Holding him by the scruff of his collar, Erik all but lifted Nadir from off the ground, his voice laced with utter venom,

"What have you done?! How could you let her!? What good would it do to bring her back here to me? Have you no sense, you Persian fool?! HAVE YOU ANY IDEA HOW DIFFICULT IT WAS TO LET THAT WOMAN GO?!"

Nadir, clutching at Erik's hands, straining for freedom; gasped between words,

"It's not about you! It's not even about her! Erik, please let me go!"

And the Ghost did so. He watched Nadir slink away from him, legs unsure of themselves as they retreated.

"But you did nothing to dissuade her." Erik was fuming.

"Do you so badly not want to see her again, Erik? Are you that ashamed?"

"No!" Erik spat. The truth was far more rickety.

"Well, you should be, you arrogant bastard!" Nadir answered just as coarsely, "If it wasn't for you none of this would have happened! You should be wearing your guilt on your God-forsaken sleeve!"

"You think I don't?"

"Do you?"

"I regret everything, Daroga. I do." Erik sat back down, he seemed exhausted. Having the past rear its ugly head was just as soul-destroying for him as it was for Nadir. The Persian could see that much but Erik had a strangeness about him that never went away. Nadir, in all his years of knowing him and all the years' post-Erik where he had the time to think and try to understand, the Frenchman was still an enigma and still refused to look himself in the eye. An eternal mix of regret and utter triumph. Nadir knew that he would repeat everything he did simply because it was the sort of man Erik was. He sensed Erik knew that too. Therein lay the problem.

At last!

Nadir took cautious steps towards Erik, his hands raised,

"You don't have to meet her. You don't have to do a thing. She's here in memory of her husband, to sing an aria and then to go home once and for all."

"That's hardly satisfying."

Or not!

Nadir threw his hands into the air, exasperated and growing irritable.

"Do what you will, then! Wallow in your self-pity and self-doubt. Mademoiselle Daae arrives in three days."

With that, as if they had only been apart for three days, Nadir stormed off leaving Erik to do as was suggested. Wallow in his self-doubt and pity.

He opened the piano cover up to begin to play but hesitated.

Curtly and without warning, he slammed his fists down onto the ivory keys letting loose a foul and ferocious sound. He screamed loudly in its wake before he quietly began to weep.

 **OOOooooOOOOoooOOO**

Nadir heard the crash of the keys, it made him stop and look back across the lake in momentary dismay. Soon that feeling turned into an aching sadness. So Erik still loved the young Soprano. Loved her, perhaps, far more than the Viscomte.

Poor Christine; loved too much by a monster, loved not enough by a husband…

But who was he to judge? Nadir didn't know what Christine and Raoul's relationship was like in the slightest. His death had affected Christine badly, he could see that but the young woman barely shed a tear. Perhaps she'd run out or used them all up on the sorrow she held for that ghost that sang in her head still.

Three days, he thought as he made his way up into the light of day outside of the opera house. What madness lay ahead, he wondered as he gazed out over the city.

The past was such a fickle thing and Erik was relentless. Christine would be at her most vulnerable now.

With that, things came together in Nadir's mind. He had intended to simply watch from afar. That might not be enough. He would have to be in the thick of it this time.

 **OoOOOOoOOO**

Far below the tenement halls of the opera house, Erik sat with his chin resting upon steepled fingers, staring at a very old drawing of Christine Daae he had done the first night he had heard her sing.

 **0oOoooOOoooooO**

Across a very narrow sea, in Sweden, a carriage was bumbling its way down through Europe towards France where Miss Daae would board a vessel that would carry her to Cherbourg. There she would board a train which would get her to Paris. Then she'd get a carriage once more and would arrive at a hotel not far from the Palais Garnier.

She sighed heavily. People thought she hadn't been crying and this was testament to how much she loved Raoul. Or…rather, how much she didn't.

Both were incorrect. She cried more than one could ever have imagined.

* * *

 **You like? By the way - Reviews give me life. Please review. Writing this is fun but I like your thoughts.**


	2. Chapter 2

**And so the story continues. Gonna be a slow burn. Brace yourselves, lovelies.**

* * *

Raoul's death had been _terribly_ unexpected. His brother had been _terribly_ kind.

However, Christine had a nagging guilt that grew worse as time wore on, a guilt for not realising that Raoul was _terribly_ unwell. Looking back on it, it was all _terribly_ obvious. Christine had failed in her one, singular duty to Raoul; being a wife. She hadn't bared him any children, in fact in their three years of marriage, Raoul had barely managed to touch her.

Her singing career had indeed taken off and she was a fast rising star across Europe. But she liked to think she had managed to stay humble. Not quite humble enough, it seemed, to have registered that Raoul's expedition had taken its toll.

That expedition to the North Pole which Raoul had mentioned about going on when they first established their romantic relations in the opera house finally came to pass. Off he went in the summer period which suited Christine down to the ground with all her rehearsals and performances being at their busiest. She'd bid him farewell and he had held her so tight before he kissed her most passionately and left.

He came home a little more than a month later with a tiny wheeze of cough which he played down as a cold. Change of temperature and all that.

Christine's concern waned over time and soon she forgot. But the hellish cough never went away until that fateful evening when Raoul collapsed outside her dressing room. When she opened the door to the sudden thud, she found not only Raoul but an old, familiar face; The Persian. Aghast, perplexed, surprised and terrified, she, Raoul and the Persian whose name came to her as Nadir for the first time, rushed to the nearest hospital.

They had called upon Raoul's brother to meet them there and rush the man did, beating them to it.

Christine, upon learning of Raoul's condition, had yelled involuntarily at him, demanding why he had not told her about his problem. His response,

"I didn't want to worry you. Your music was far too important."

Simple and not at all meant unkindly but it had knifed Christine's heart into a thousand pieces and she became the villain of her own story.

As he lay dying, she apologised a thousand times over and all he told her to do was go back to Paris and sing his favourite aria to a thousand spectators and get the applause she deserved for it.

She nodded fervently and watched him take his last, rattling breath through misty eyes.

Philip, Raoul's brother assured her many a time that she was not to blame. He made all the arrangements for them all to bundle off to Paris to put this thing to rest. He did through red, puffy eyes and an aching heart.

Christine put all of her coming performances on hold.

Amidst the manic period of grief and loss, organisation of legal documents and panic stricken over an aria she didn't know, a solid figure stood by as the watchman. Monsieur Kahn. Despite the bond that had grown between Philip and herself over Raoul's death, Nadir had become a shining light in the dark, a rock on which to stand, an immovable force that would not be swayed by the madness of mourning.

"Monsieur, will you be accompanying us then?" Christine asked as she reached for a bag hidden away above a cupboard.

The Persian nodded with a certainty that made her weary, reaching over her to retrieve the object of her desire.

"Nothing in the world will stop me, Mademoiselle. But I will be making my own way."

"You say that so determinedly…"

"I have reasons."

It was then she realised the magnitude behind Raoul's request. She was going to the place where it all began. She was off to put it all to rest for Nadir's agreement to accompany them to Paris could mean only one thing…

The Phantom of the Opera was still a very real fable. She stopped packing and had a quiet fear settle inside of her. She had gazed at him a long while before concluding without thinking, as if to brush aside common sense,

"I'll be needing some help with my rehearsals anyway."

Nadir had hardly blinked and yet his demeanour certainly was taken aback. Christine shut her eyes and willed her words to come back into her mouth but no such luck. Instead they hung there like a fog that hid the path.

"I won't repeat those words to him, Madam." he had assured her kindly as if having read her thoughts, "I'll leave you now, then. I'll be heading this evening. You will be leaving…"

"In three days tomorrow."

"I shall be awaiting your arrival. You know where I'll be staying, send a telegram when you have arrived." He bowed, "A very fine evening to you, Madam."

He began to leave but not before Christine called upon him abruptly,

"Is this my fault? Could I have stopped this?"

He had looked upon her with so much pity she almost _did_ cry;

"Not with a thousand suns."

Then he had left.

Christine hardly slept that night. They set out at dawn towards the harbour, Philip sitting close by her side, a protective arm around her shoulders. Before long, their journey had begun.

 **OOOOooooOOOOOoooooOO**

Their arrival in Paris was no more momentous than the rising of the sun; apparent, expected and nothing new. To Philip, at least. To Christine, upon seeing the flat of the city with its tiny, cobbled roads that had continuously been barricaded over the course of time and the hill that was La Butte Monmatre overlooking it all in the distance, she felt as if she were entering an entirely different world.

De Chagny was a well-known and respected noble name but Christine Daae, the wife of De Chagny was a separate entity. No one cared if a De Chagny died for no one knew what a De Chagny looked like.

No one cared if a Daae died either but her reputation as one of the greats, with her face on many a poster and art work, would send a ripple through the troubled waters of society. She'd be missed, if only for a time. But no one would know Raoul's name.

She was saddened by this revelation more than words could express and the sadness brought a terrible silence upon her. Philip tried to speak to her, to talk to her about their plans but she barely heard him and he gave up.

Somewhere in the distance she heard him say,

"You wouldn't notice if the world split down the middle at this very moment, would you?"

Then he sighed and sat back, removing his arm from about her shoulders unaware of how _entirely_ aware she was that _her_ world, at the very least, had done just that.

Further into the bowls of the city their little carriage trundled, the cobbled stoned streets making the ride uncomfortably bumpy.

"This damned carriage!" Philip snapped as he knocked his head on the window, "I can't wait to be out of it, I'm about to go mad!"

"We're almost there." Christine soothed him absently, gazing out at the great work of architecture looming ahead, "There it is."

Philip swivelled in his seat to lay his green eyes on the works of Charles Garnier. The Opera House was just as beautiful as they had all remembered it. A towering marble arch with stairs that connected the common to the grand where the enormous double-doors stood locked and shut, just waiting to be opened to the public once more.

Christine had to smile – home. She would be meeting the Opera House's new manager that very evening to discuss the proceedings of the night she was to sing.

She saw a poster of herself plastered to one of the walls. The sight made her feel ill. The feeling of home disappeared. Long gone were the days of walking in unknown, yet very welcome as family. Now were the days of walking in as royalty and the common stamped out or ignored.

"Well," Philip started, his mood lightening, "I can't say I don't greatly anticipate seeing what has become of that place. I wonder what the new manager has done to the inside…"

"Mmm….probably not much."

"Oh, I disagree!" Philip retorted excitedly, craning his head to keep his eyes on the Opera House, "New managers must always make their mark!"

"I would agree were it any other building, my dear Philip."

Philip turned back curiously,

"Whatever do you mean?"

Christine forced a smile of reassurance.

"It's not important. The stories are long over."

"The Opera Ghost!" Philip turned to her fully, enlightenment etched in every corner of his face, "A fable – now more than ever, surely."

"It's no fable." Christine tried to explain, "Three years ago you rescued Raoul and I – "

"From the Rue Scribe, I remember and that's all. Whatever event occurred, neither you nor Raoul ever spoke about it. Tremendously curious. I'm not simple, Christine, I just thought it best not to ask. Unless you'd care too now?" He waited for a moment but Christine kept her words to herself.

"Besides," he continued, "an encounter with the Phantom of the Opera was hardly what I had in mind for what I was rescuing you from. If rescuing is what you would call it. I'd opted for retrieving."

Christine closed her eyes, bringing Philip's rampage to an end. He would slaughter her spirits – what little she had left – if he kept on the way he did.

No, they'd never told Raoul's brother. The purpose was to forget the man behind the stories as he would be forced to forget her. Escaping, though a relief, was one of the hardest things she'd ever done in her life. The poor, poor soul.

They arrived at their hotel shortly after, not more than 5 minutes from the Palais. A young Porter waited outside the Hotel entrance and was swift to descend upon their luggage no sooner than they had stopped. Whisking it away to their suites while Philip paid the carriage driver and the hotel manager who welcomed them with an endearing but over-the-top welcome.

He went on and on about the hotel, it's splendour, its history, its architecture, its staff etc. Christine couldn't have cared less. She craved silence, space and a piece of paper to write her telegram to Nadir.

After an eternity of chatting, the Manager finally showed them to their rooms, bidding them a good day,

"It is a very great honour to have you with us, Mademoiselle, I trust your stay will be comfortable."

"Merci."

"Très Bien."

Then he was gone. Philip in his suite and Christine in hers. A pen and paper were found on the desk beside an enormous bed with gold-threaded patterns over a crisp white linen.

She sat down at the desk, ignoring the urge to sleep on the enticing stage of a bed, and wrote to Nadir. She sent it swiftly to him, informing him of their plans to meet the manager that very evening at a quarter past six.

Only then did she return to her bed to sleep away the tiresome journey. But the exhaustion followed her into her dreams where masked men and odd boats roamed around a building that seemed to be made of music.

 **OoOoOoOoO**

Nadir stood at the foot of the stairs to the Opera house, fuming. But he didn't know why. Erik was insufferable to be sure but Nadir had long since gotten over that flaw of his. This was a different fume and he knew not where it came from. Exhausted anticipation and irritability, perhaps? He didn't know. He'd seen Erik more than once since having left Christine.

Every time, he'd left Erik with his sanity hanging on by the skin of its teeth.

He was about to make his way home when his name was called from a little way up the road,

"Monsieur Kahn!"

He turned to find Christine Daae surging ahead of Philip (who offered a small, gracious smile) to greet him, eyes red around the rim and puffy. Dark circles had begun to swoop down towards her cheeks.

The girl didn't look very well.

He returned her greeting with another bow,

"Madam."

"I was worried my letter might not reach you in time. I must admit," She glanced back at Philip, still making head way towards them, "I truly desired an old friend above all else in this matter."

Nadir held back his puzzlement. There was no need to ask what letter it was for he hadn't been at the hotel and had not received it for of course he'd just been with Erik.

"Monsieur." Philip took Nadir's hand and shook it heartily as he finally arrived, "I trust your journey was comfortable?"

Nadir chuckled,

"No more comfortable than yours, I would assume, Comte."

Philip glanced down at his appearance, then rubbed his tired wilting face to put some colour back into it.

"Awful."

Both men laughed, a strained sound that trailed off into a desperate want of any other situation other than the one they were in – a dead friend/brother/lover and standing at the foot of a building that held a twisted and uncomfortable history for two out of the three.

"The manager would be waiting," Christine interjected, walking away from them and taking Nadir's hand for a quick squeeze. Philip offered her his arm when they reached the top and she took it without question.

As if having counted together after having planned their entrance, all three strode inside when two guards realised who she was, opening the door upon her arrival, shutting them once they were in.

Two men ahead of them, standing in the middle of the greatness about them turned upon hearing such an occurrence. One shorter of stature than the other but slimmer. The other was slightly plumper with neatly trimmed, black hair, laced with grey and a moustache, accompanied by a singular looking-glass over his right eye. A chain for a pocket watch hung out of a lovely, grey blazer. The man must have been in his early forties. Not typically handsome but an intriguing face all the same.

He was the manager, it seemed, for he threw out his arms and strode towards them with arms wide and a smile upon lush lips, while the other slipped away.

"Mademoiselle Daae! Benoit Angier, at your disposal. It is such an honour to have you here, I can't quite tell you how excited we all are to have you. Excuse the lack of anything happening in here – it's lunch time and no one is in."

He shrugged carelessly. Nadir grinned at the man's flamboyance. Pompous but entirely likeable. Christine curtsied,

"Yes, I'm familiar with French etiquette, Monsieur." she smiled, "Forgive us, I hope we're not intruding…"

"Oh, no, don't be silly. No time for lunch when you're the manager of one of the most revered Opera Houses in the world. Dealing with a ghost and all!"

He laughed as if it were a joke but the smiles of all three failed to arise or otherwise faded.

"Oh come now, you're not superstitious people, are you? You don't look it. Miss Daae surely you would understand having worked here before? Fables and rumours. I must admit, strange things happen. But I must know, that being said, is it true you suddenly disappeared off of the stage?"

"I fell through a trap door."

"Ah. I thought so. You see? Rumours! Everyone recalls that story with what they call lucidity, claiming to have seen you kidnapped by the Phantom. Of course that's ludicrous."

"Simply ludicrous…" Christine agreed but Nadir didn't quite have the heart to let the matter be.

"Have you found a trap-door on the stage, Monsieur?" Nadir asked softly. The manager gazed at him for some time, as if trying to remember but realised he could not.

"I advise caution," the Persian continued, "I hear you're new. This Opera House is not very old but there's a history here you ought to respect. One of which Madam Daae is apart."

The manager, bowed his head and spoke in a more resigned fashion,

"You are right, Monsieur. My apologies, Madam, I should have thought my words through before having spoken them. I suppose I might let you in on a confidential matter to ease the strain I caused?"

All three of them cocked their heads curiously. He dropped his head sheepishly,

"I'm a firm believer in this Opera Ghost."

Nadir inhaled sharply and put his hand forward,

"Nadir Kahn, Monsieur Angier."

 **OoOoOoOoO**

They were shown around the Opera House with an extensive tale for each new thing that had been incurred, built up or thrown away. Many of the staff members she had lived with had either died or left.

Christine had enquired about Meg and Madam Giry but apparently, they had left not long after she had and Monsieur Angier had no idea as to where they might have gone. It saddened Christine to think that she would never see them again. Carlotta Guidicelli on the other hand, had come back in full bloom after her departure and was once again the House's leading soprano.

Christine cast an amused glance Nadir's way and was met by an equally as amused sigh.

"I hope you don't mind, Madam, but we had hoped to have a gala the night before your performance. To showcase the Signora and those who are up and coming. With you, of course, as the headline."

Christine felt her breath hitch, amazed at the openness of the new manager,

"You would showcase unknowns here at the Opera House?"

"Yes, indeed, Madam. Why not? There is talent out there, all it takes is someone to open the doors for it." A sneaking little blush crept up his neck to his cheek, rendering him quite an endearing specimen, "Of course, it is quite a selfish endeavour. I'd like to be remembered in some shape or form."

Christine felt herself smile genuinely for the first time, laying a soft hand upon Angier's arm,

"Selfish or not, Monsieur, that truly is a kindness to all the arts. I'd be more than happy to oblige – I don't even need to be the headlining act!"

"Oh yes you do!" Angier retorted playfully, "Of course you do! You are an inspiration to many of the dancers here as well as to the new acts we will be show-casing. Some of them truly are stunning."

"I look forward to it, Monsieur."

Then she caught sight of the stage just over his shoulder. Curious as to what had caught her attention so swiftly, Angier turned, following her gaze.

"Ah," he whispered as she glided past him to it. He cast a smile at the Comte De Chagny as he followed swiftly after and who had winked as he strode by.

Christine climbed the stairs to the stage and took to its centre to gaze out at the hundreds of seats where hundreds of spectators would be gazing back. She remembered it all. The feeling of receiving a standing ovation for the first time.

She closed her eyes and she felt it all again.

 **OoOoOoOoO**

"She's astoundingly beautiful!" Monsieur Angier told Nadir passionately as the Persian drew level with him.

"Yes and you're not the first person to say so."

"Of course I'm not, I'd never dare think such a thing. Is the young man her lover, husband, partner?"

"Are you hopeful?" Nadir cast him a weary glance but the man chuckled and eased Nadir's troubled thoughts,

"I am, Monsieur but I'd never dare. It would be terribly unprofessional."

"The young man is the brother of her late husband, the Viscomte De Chagny."

"Her late husband…" Angier's face fell, "How cruel of me. I did not know."

"Keep it that way, Monsieur, it would be better."

"You have my word."

Nadir and Angier watched Christine and Philip for a time; she parading about the stage as if to re-familiarise herself with all its ins and outs while Philip looked on, making comments here and there about the beauty or raggedness of it. It took some time for Nadir to work up the courage to ask but he needed to know in order to find out what sort of situation he was to anticipate.

"How much do you know about this Opera Ghost, Monsieur?"

Angier turned, startled,

"Well, not much."

"What has made you come to the conclusion of his reality?"

Angier waved it off,

"Things go bump in the night every so often. Strange sounds out of Box 5, notes from no one addressed to me. My staff have reported seeing a man wondering about the Opera House, wondering neither here nor there, going as quickly as he had come."

"And that's all?" Nadir asked sceptically.

Angier didn't look at him for a long while but the cogs in his head could be seen turning. At last he answered,

"No one has been kidnapped, I have been charged no fee and no one has been hanged."

So Angier knew all about the happenings of the past and yet he kept it secret but it did not take him long to answer the open question,

"The old Managers; Monsieur Andre and Firman told me everything – the whole story of Miss Daae and the Viscomt. I was sceptical of it but questioned them no more and took note of the warning they gave me. Never to repeat the story and let it simply be a fable as it would be sure go down in history."

"Then why bring it up as a jest earlier?"

"I needed to find out the truth. Your expressions confirmed everything. Tell me, Monsieur Kahn –"

"Nadir."

"Nadir…need I be worried?"

"Let me worry, Monsieur –"

"Benoit, then, Nadir."

"Let me worry, Benoit. My history with this ghost is even longer."

Just then, Christine belted out an exceedingly loud and boisterous note that echoed throughout the theatre and bounced off of every wall.

"That's…quite a voice…" Angier commented in surprise.

 **OoOoOOOOOoooo**

It did not go unnoticed. The sublime voice of Christine Daae did not only go up but sank into the depths of the theatre where Erik sat and lifted his eyes to the heavens.

* * *

 **A/N Remember, we like reviews. So...please. Review. Also, Viscount or viscompt? I can never remember...**

 **Review!**


	3. Chapter 3

Erik, drawn by the singular note Christine Daae sang, still ringing in the cornerstones of the Opera House, slowly climbed towards the light. To his Angel whom he'd almost succeeded in – not quite forgetting but – putting away in a lesser used part of his memory.

He got to a point where he stood directly beneath centre stage, he couldn't see her but he could hear just fine.  
He strained a little for her voice, amidst the male majority, was lost a little bit. The new manager was there and Nadir (he rolled his eyes)…and one other man he could not place though strangely familiar.

Somewhere in all of this was Christine's voice, soft and gentle. It had deepened slightly as she had grown a little older but still very much a soprano and she chose her words with a little more care it seemed for there seemed to be a moment's pause before answering any question or conversation that leant itself to her generous opinion.

He closed his eyes, tears daring to escape – she was right there! It was unmistakably her and yet it seemed neigh on impossible.

"Christine…" he whispered into the darkness, willing his voice to float to her deaf ears and draw her to him once more but nothing happened. She would surely run the next time she heard him but why, then, come back? Nadir had claimed it was for her dead husband but sense doesn't leave you entirely on your deathbed. Does it?

Christine's sense certainly would not have. God, the human condition was simultaneously simple and complex. The most fickle of ideas could easily be a stroke of genius. The cleverest; a heavy mistake.

But she was there above him. He listened as they went over the proceedings for the night and who would be involved. Angier dared to mention Carlotta in the mess which turned Erik's melting heart instantly to stone. Cursing, he slapped a flat hand against the nearest wall,

"Damn that man to Hell! It might very well be the third chandelier in three years!"

Yes, the third chandelier, though one was by accident – he was examining its hoists and its beauty when a screw came loose. The stupid thing catapulted to the ground at a quarter past one in the morning and woke up the whole Opera House and half of Paris with them. Erik had never run so fast in his life.

But the gala was a good idea, he concluded.

He pulled himself away from the conversation, away from Christine's precious, _precious_ voice and made his way towards the manager's office.

He had told himself no more letters and no more secret offences. If he was so unhappy or desired so greatly a thing, he would approach the Manager head on. Angier needn't know who he actually was. He trusted Nadir not to have given a detailed description of his appearance and need for a mask.

However! Box 5 was his. Old habits die hard.

He picked the lock of the door and strolled in, closing said door behind him. Taking a seat in the chair on the opposite side of the desk, Erik waited for Benoit Angier to return to discuss his proposal.

When he did, he stalled for only a moment, eying Erik up in a moment of disbelief before shutting the door gently to avoid drawing attention.

"I was wondering," he commented as he made his way over to a whiskey tankard to pour himself one and handing another to the Ghost, "whether this turn of events would draw you out, Monsieur."

Erik felt his hackles raise and he growled accordingly.

"You think I'm an animal to be baited?"

"I'm not entirely sure how to answer this, Monsieur – I hear your bites and barks are equal in their ferocity. That being said, forgive me, Monsieur, I don't wish for our relationship to begin on a bad note."

Erik smirked but bowed his head in acknowledgment. However, he offered no details as Angier was so plainly expecting. He rolled the glass, circulating the whiskey in thought before putting it down on the table, preparing to say something but Erik got in first,

"I don't believe you're one to think before talking, Monsieur Angier…"

The manager shrugged sheepishly.  
"One of my many flaws."

"You'd do well to do so next time. I've learned a thing or two of human etiquette, not so much of patience."

Angier gave him a quizzical if not puzzled look – similar to that of Nadir's the first time Erik had implied the notion that he was set apart from the rest of humanity.

"How might I help you, Monsieur?" Angier asked at last, realising the threat that came with such a notion.

"Box 5. I no longer care for it much so I haven't asked in many years but this Gala you will be having – I expect Box 5 to be left exclusively for my use."

"Box 5 is worth a substantial amount of money, Monsieur. To keep it for one man is ludicrous!"

"It would be ludicrous to refuse." Erik told him calmly, "I'm well versed in disasters. Believe me, Monsieur, you don't want me as an adversary."

"No, Monsieur, I don't believe I would…" Angier submitted with a notable release in tension in his shoulders, "Box 5 is yours."

"Very kind – and one more thing, if you will?"

"My choice is limited." Angier smiled bitterly drawing a sly smile in return from behind a porcelain mask.

"Carlotta; make her roll in this gala as small and as inconsequential as possible. How that woman rose to greatness is very far beyond me and I dare say far beyond you too, am I right?"

Angier shifted uncomfortably,

"I am morally obligated to disagree."

"But _immorally_ obligated to agree. Good. My instructions are clear then."

"Carlotta will have my head as the prop for the new production of 'Hannibal'."

He chuckled morbidly at his own little jest as Erik upped and left, closing the door on the manager sitting on the corner of his desk, cowering at the thought of having to endure the wrath of Carlotta. But if Christine wanted to rule the stage then Carlotta had to be removed as a threat.

Contented, he began making his way back towards his house but not before two distinct voices could be heard.  
A woman's and a man's – another man occasionally chimed in with a marvellously witty comment or otherwise intelligent opinion – the same familiarity but Erik didn't know him. He didn't think.

He crept towards the banister of the main foyer, taking care to remain within the shadows – he paused a moment before peering over the edge. Did he want to see her again?  
Did he want anything to do with the gala and its performers? With _this_ performer?

He stuck his head over the banister with complete and utter discretion and his soul instantly took flight.  
Christine Daae was there before his very eyes, all grown up, carrying herself with a new found confidence and a fair amount of very attractive dignity but the impact of the De Chagny boy's death was visibly present in the way her shoulders sagged and her eyes drooped, circled by a dark skin that could pass for a bruise.

He rose fully – yes, he wanted a part in every bit of tom-foolery that would inevitably ensue.  
If only it was to say that he was sorry for his actions.  
It wouldn't satiate the dire and desperate need, want and desire but he would learn to endure has he had done before when she and her man rowed away.

By God, that was a long night for him. He didn't sleep for two days.

The memory hurt him still – the bittersweet lament that followed it hurt him more.  
He turned his head to the right, spying a vase containing a bunch of rather extravagant flowers. He pried through the thick of them to find the simplest for the simplest, in his mind, were almost always the most beautiful. Eying the pretty little white whatever-it-was, he tossed it over the edge of the bannister and watched it go for only a moment before disappearing.

 **OoOOOoOoOoO**

Nadir had seen everything though, he had perfected the art of noticing without being noticed. He would rather not have had Erik toss the flower to their feet but it came none the less.

It fell with some force, surprising in its descent despite the lightness of the petals. The root and stem made it sturdy. It bounced off Philip's head, onto his shoulder and then to the floor right at the Mademoiselle's feet.

"My goodness!" Philip smiled, bending to retrieve the escaped foliage, "It's a Poppy."

He looked up at Christine and gave it to her with an even wider smile – as of late, Philip had been calling Christine little pet names. None of which failed to make her smile fondly at him.

"A Poppy for a Poppet." After she had taken it from him, he looked up, trying to specify where it had fallen from, "I wonder where it came from? It's not every day you get a Poppy on the run."

Christine giggled but her little smile was short lived. Nadir knew full well that Christine was aware of its origin.

"Perhaps a ghost threw it." Philip looked suddenly serious and raised his eyebrows drawing a startled silence down around them as Nadir and Christine gazed at him in perpetual discomfort.

Then he laughed,  
"Oh come on! A jest – for once, my friends, try to laugh."

"Monsieur-" Nadir started kindly but by this time Christine had put the Poppy back gently into another vase where it tucked itself safely into the comfort of the other flowers, and walked away, exiting the Opera House.

Nadir then stopped and followed her out with his eyes while Philip did the same, a puzzled way about him.

"My brother never did mention much about what happened at the Opera House the night the Chandelier came crashing down… but this manager has aroused my curiosity. What did happen? Who is this ghost? Is he still present and need I be worried?"

Nadir closed his eyes briefly,  
"There's a man somewhere here and there – it's a complex story, Monsieur. It's brought much woe to us all. He's my…he's my…" Nadir grimaced, finding it difficult to say the words, "He's a f-friend of mine. A very old, twisted one. Christine was young and naïve and he was far too manipulative to let a beauty like hers slip through his fingers. He fell in love and so did she."

"With him?!"

"No, Monsieur, you know full well who she fell in love with."

"It wasn't me."

Nadir broke off his tale of woe and gave Philip the best impression of a confused man he could muster. Nadir's face was sharp and stoic, he more often than not appeared to be sceptical.

Philip shrugged,

"She loved Raoul, I know she did and I am grateful, for he loved her with such a fierce but very gentle fire. But it became clear, to me and my brother that she wasn't _in_ love with him. I think she's been slowly coming to terms with that herself."

Nadir gazed on, urging the Comte to continue but Philip only stared back blankly,

"I'm sorry, my friend, I don't have much more light to shed on you."

"Monsieur, come. We have much to talk about!"

Nadir walked briskly out of the foyer of the Opera House, straight past Christine who waited patiently at the foot of the steps.

Nadir's mind was reeling as he heard Philip mutter something to Christine before following Nadir with quickened steps.

Eventually they came to a quaint little café that Nadir remembered having come to before back in the strangely colourful days of the past.

They sat down beside a dusty windowsill and ordered two coffees with no sugar and a dash of milk.  
The café, Nadir noted, had lost a little bit of its former glory. No doubt having deteriorated as popularity of the Opera House began to lag.

"Now, tell me, Monsieur," Nadir said very seriously to a perturbed Comte, "Do you believe that this is because she was or is in love with someone else?"

Philip shook his head,  
"I don't think she herself knows. She's been very tied up in her own thoughts lately, I believe she feels a bit guilty…"

"Because she's in love with someone else?"

"What useless string are you groping in the darkness for here, Monsieur Kahn?" Philip snapped rather suddenly, making Nadir draw back from him in dismay, "My brother was a good, honourable and by all accounts – if what you say is true about him having rescued her – a very brave man. He was not unworthy of her love!"

"Forgive me, Monsieur, I meant no offense."

"Then speak plainly, for God's Sake, man! What is it that everyone else seems to be aware of and that I am not?"

Nadir considered Philip for a time, gauging how much to say, how much to withhold while the young Comte sat patiently waiting for an answer he did in fact deserve.

"His name is Erik and he's the one responsible for the legend known as the Phantom of the Opera. He's still very much a live, Monsieur and he has more influence over the workings of the Opera House than you might expect. He's a very powerful man. He tutored Christine in her singing abilities for a long time before Raoul came into the story. If it weren't for Raoul, things might have taken their time and would never have escalated as much.

"But young Raoul le Viscomte De Chagny did come and set off a chain of very unfortunate events. Erik is a jealous man. The moment it became apparent that your brother and Christine had a closer relationship than he expected…I suppose he started to go a little mad."

"Why hide? What from?"

"The world, Monsieur. His story is not a happy one."

"Tell me."

"Certainly not. It's not mine to tell. But I will continue, if it please you, for it's now quite important if what you tell me is true. Erik started trying to manipulate all kinds of things surrounding Ms Daae's progression. He was responsible for the Chandelier, which you are aware of, for Carlotta's fall from grace, for more than a few deaths. But, Monsieur, he's also responsible for Christine's incredible abilities –  
"He taught her incredibly well and she owes much of her flight to him. He's taken care of her in many, many ways. It earned him all but her love and that's where it all went wrong. But I do recall a very small amount of uncertainty when it came to her dealings with him. Erik is a very forthcoming man, he didn't dance about the idea of his desire for her. She, in turn, is and was very young. Being attacked with such an onslaught of emotion can be very derailing for a young person."

Philip's expression had taken on a look of quiet learning, slowly beginning to understand the extent of the toiled wills and emotions that were wrapped up in the mess. Nadir continued.

"I think, Monsieur, she loved Erik very much but was unable to grasp onto what love she harboured; a father's love, a friend or a lover. Erik never allowed her the time. It was either 'this' or 'that' and if it was to be 'that' then there would be consequences. He threatened to bring down the Opera House and kill everyone inside."

Philip suddenly looked horrified,

"Then she must hate him! Surely! What an outrage – a monster!"

"Be still, Monsieur." Nadir raised a calming hand, "The story continues. If you met him, you'd never hate him. He's impossibly twisted; a terrifying human being but he's…I can't quite explain it but he's marched on through life utterly alone. You can never blame someone for chasing a blind hope if company in the dark is the prize at the end of it. Christine saw that, I believe. So, in her own brave way, tried to accommodate his and Raoul's desires. Unfortunately, Erik wanted too much from her. Almost killed them. That's where you came in. You went looking for Raoul, did you not? You found a trap door and endeavoured to find out where it lead too?"

Philip frowned, recalling,

"I remember thinking that Raoul's endless chasing of Christine was going to be the end of him. The next thing I know I'm pulling them from the Rue Scribe. Nothing else."

Nadir felt sheepish.

"Yes…that was me. But before then, you found the Phantom's house, he tried to kill you. I pulled you out of the lake not two hours after everything and miraculously found you to be still alive. But I ensured the narcotics they used to sustain you had a certain amount of amnesiac qualities. When you woke, we told you of how you had retrieved them from the lake with quite some heroics. But you've forgotten more than you would like, Monsieur. I'm sorry."

Philip, of course, wasn't so easily satiated.

"Why on Earth would you do such a thing?" Why would you want to hide him?!"

Nadir sighed,

"He's my friend."

"He's your friend…" Philip repeated sourly.

Nadir was silent, staring back at the Comte thoughtfully,

"He's a good man, too. Somewhere…in…side…I guess. Either way. You all escaped. Now that Christine has had the time to think without the Phantom looming over her every move, she is probably discovering much and more about herself."

"That explains then why she'd want to come back. It also explains a large amount of blank memory…why was it imperative that my memory never return?"

"That was my thought. With regards to your memory; it's simple. Security. I owed Erik security. I trusted Christine with all my soul then as I do now. To have one remember without the other is disastrous so I left the Viscomte. Also, both were awake which would make the procedure far more problematic. But now, be careful, Monsieur le Comte, you don't want to ruffle tidy feathers just yet. Don't make what you feel obvious, I intend to not tell Erik."

"What of the Manager, Monsieur Angier?" Philip asked abruptly.

Nadir squinted. "What about him?"

"You've been talking to him, no? You've been asking about your man, Erik. You also said he's got more influence over the Populaire than I would expect. I'm putting two and two together, Monsieur. What about the Manager?"

Nadir nodded, understanding.

"I've yet to have a proper talk to him. I will not relay this information, fear not but we will have to be careful. I wouldn't call Erik sane."

"What _would_ you call him?"

Nadir shrugged,  
"Insane?"

Philip laughed, all tension leaving his body.

"Insane…alright then, Monsieur Kahn, if you can keep the devil at bay, I'll guide the angel."

The walked together, in a comfortable silence back to the hotel where Christine sat at a little table reading the Opera she was to sing. Upon hearing their footsteps, she looked up and rose to meet them.

"I need a tutor." She told them brazenly and looking Nadir dead in the eye, "I need my old Angel of Music."

Nadir and Philip both raised a surprised eyebrow or two, glancing at each other.

"Ah." Was all Nadir said.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N They Meet! What ho!**

* * *

"Why is this such a surprise?" Christine asked pointedly, narrowing her eyes at Philip, "And why do you look more surprised than confused?"

"I…well!" Philip turned to Nadir for help. The Persian gave him a weary glance before carefully telling Christine that he'd told the Comte all there was to know regarding the history that the Opera House held for them all. She nodded along to his confession but said nothing.

The look she gave Philip was one of very careful analysis.

"I'm quite sane, you know…" She told him in little more than a whisper.

"I know you are, Madamoiselle!" Philip quickly defended himself, daring to step towards her but she retreated from him almost fearfully which baffled him – baffled Nadir too, "Christine?"

"I loved Raoul, I did. I'm not going back to an old lover, you must understand!"

"I do – Christine-?" Philip tried to qualm her sudden skittishness but young Ms Daae was as nervous as a horse surrounded by wolves. Her own confusion blatant.

"He was the other side of the world to me! But he didn't give me my voice" She rounded on Nadir in peculiar desperation, "Nadir!"

Nadir glanced up at her.

"I need my voice," she pleaded, her hysteria waning as she avoided Philip's gaze at all costs, "I – I…I need m-my voice."

"Then go, Madam." Nadir assured almost without hesitation, hiding how utterly astounded he truly was. Christine Daae was indeed in the very deepest part of the ocean of grief and searching for a reprieve. Unfortunately, it would appear, her thoughts were of Erik and how he might be able to help her. Be her angel of music and whisk her away. A little girl's desires – a grown man's opportunity.

Nadir felt he had to tread more carefully than ever. It scared him.

Christine would jump into Erik's arms without thought to soothe the pain because Erik was the main sauce of comfort for far too many years Pre-Viscomte De Chagny. Seeking that Angel again was a dangerous business indeed and Christine couldn't see that. Not yet.

Erik would be far too bloody arrogant and selfish to realise it.

Christine rushed past them then, all but in tears, racing towards the Opera House.

Philip made to follow her in her distress but Nadir caught his arm.

"Wait," he told him firmly, "Let her go. Let her be for this evening."

"What?" Philip demanded, "My brother just about gave his life to save her and now he's dead. The least I can do is make sure she doesn't end up going the same way she would have done were he not there! It is my duty, Sir!"

Nadir shook his head,

"Christine Daae would have been perfectly able to get herself out of that situation albeit slowly. If anything, your brother and I were a complication. Let her go, he won't hurt her. I can give you a thousand promises on that."

"Then why do we fear him so very much?" Philip asked sceptically, still in a mild panic that was visible in the bluish veins that strained at his temples.

"It's letting her go, that's the problem, Monsieur." Nadir explained, "He's been alone all his life; letting go of the one person you love and who can save you from eternal damnation is a difficult thing."

"You know this?"

"I can only imagine. That man's been in Hell for a very long time."

"He's poison to Christine, then! We must stop this madness!" The Comte made to move again but Nadir still had a firm grip on his arm.

"Monsieur!" Nadir said desperately, eyes tight shut, willing the Comte to understand, "If she feels she needs him, then why deny her, her healing. He may be poison, he may not – she can find that out on her own. For now, you and I must be vigilant and keep watch and inform Monsieur Angier."

 **OoOoOoOoOoooOOO**

Christine raced up the steps to the grand door of the Opera House but they were locked. No amount of pushing, shoving, knocking or calling amounted to having them open for her. There was no show on that night either so a chance of a later entrance was beyond her.

She had thought of using the Rue Scribe as entrance; the way she and Raoul had escaped but thought better of it.

In fact, the more time went by, the less inclined she felt towards trying to find him. At the time of her mad decision, Christine had been suddenly overwhelmed with grief. Such an emptiness that she needed to fill and the only person she could remember who was capable of doing such a thing was her Angel turned Man – Erik. The Phantom of the Opera.

But she was beginning to calm now, the need growing less violent until at last she was calm. She abandoned her mission and instead, in the cool evening, completely unprepared and under-dressed, she made her way to a nearby park where dwellers still roamed. Fine gentlemen and gentleladies in suave evening attire; top hats and blossoming dresses that appeared to bloom at the waist. Top hats that made the shortest men look far more agile and much taller.

Paris was the city of light and class. They nodded, bowed and greeted each other as she passed them and they passed her. No one seemed to pay any mind to her being a woman alone and lacking in fashion. That, or they did but they recognised her as the great Daae and therefore daren't question her.

 _Perhaps_ , she thought, amusing herself, _I might start a trend. If this one works, I might very well start coming to the park in my nightdress._

She thought about it more and more until she made herself giggle out loud. She covered her mouth, suddenly embarrassed and looked round to see if anyone was watching or had heard her. One man had apparently taken note and was staring at her from across the pond, his legs crossed idly with a top hat pulled low.

She smiled at him and lifted a hand in apology and continued on her way. Upon glancing back, the man had vanished. She wondered if he had been there at all. Perhaps she was going mad.

She shook her head, berating herself for being so foolish.

As the sun began to sink and darkness became more apparent, making things more difficult to see, including the path, Christine finally turned and started hurrying back.

Passing the same little pond as she had done before, the man was back, one leg crossed idly over the other as before and was watching her hurry past.

She waved, bidding him a good evening but he did not respond. Instead he rose carefully and started making his way around the pond towards her.

It brought Christine to sudden halt. A sickening fear began to rumble in her gut and she began to calculate her chances. Only now had she begun to realise that she and the stranger were about the only ones left. Everyone else had gone home, it would seem.

Before the man could make a full circled turn towards her, her name was called out. Upon seeing Philip jogging hurriedly towards her, Nadir not far behind, the stranger continued on as if having never intended to come near her in the first place.

Nadir appeared to eye the man up, slowing slightly in his brisk walk to Philip and herself. The man seemed to eye Nadir up just the same but no conflict or interaction appeared to take place until they passed each other, the moment blowing away with a gentle, cool breeze.

"Are you alright? We came straight to find you after we discovered the Opera House was closed and you weren't back."

"I'm fine…for the most part…" she looked past Philip and Nadir at the back of the retreating man who dared to take a glance behind him at her, "I'm a little shaken, I must admit."

"Yes well…I can't say that a night time stroll was your brightest idea." Philip jested with a serious undertow.

"I agree with the Comte Madam…" Nadir was nodding all the while following Christine's gaze, "Do you know him?"

"Do you?"

Nadir blinked at Christine in surprise. He then shook his head solemnly,  
"I don't know…I didn't get a good look at him. Still, best keep your wits about you, Mademoiselle, it's not safe to wonder alone around Paris at night."

Christine accepted this simple fact though in correlation with what just took place, it didn't make much sense. Christine felt vulnerable and slightly disturbed but at no point did she feel threatened – even as the man began his approach.

They traipsed back to their lodgings without so much as pin-drop of hassle. Upon entering the hotel lobby, the receptionist got to his feet.

"Ms Daae? You have a gift, Madam."

Christine paused a moment, staring at the small package in the palm of the man's hand. In his other hand, he held a note,

"The note is for a Monsieur Kahn…" the receptionist glanced at Nadir uncertainly. Nadir paid him no mind and moved to retrieve both artefacts from the young man as Philip and Christine looked on.

Christine, upon receiving the little gift, weighed it in her hand, gauging how precious its contents might be.

"Well?" Philip urged her, "What's in it?"

Beside them, Nadir let out a groan.

"What?" Christine enquired but Nadir only rolled his eyes, looking at Philip a moment before urging Christine to do the same.

Christine undid the small package to find a little box. Opening the box, she found a little round key and beneath it a note.

 _My door is always open, my Angel._

"The key to the Opera House's front door…" she muttered in awe. All she had to do was go in, stand centre stage and Erik would find her.

"Who on Earth would send you that? Certainly not the manager?" Philip exclaimed, appearing to find the thought amusing. But Christine remained silent.  
It was indeed the Ghost that had been watching her, who had approached her but whose plan was thwarted.

Realising this, Christine couldn't quite place how she felt about it. Her initial anticipation of dread and doom over the discovery never came – just as she had felt no threat in the park. In its place, however, came a rather gentle relief.

She turned to Philip and gave his arm an assuring squeeze but abstained from giving him a definitive answer. His face fell but a little but he asked no further questions. However, he appeared to be putting things together. Philip was far from dim witted.

"Care to tell us what made you moan in such a way?" Christine asked Nadir as she placed the key in the box and closed it.

Nadir glanced down at the note and shook his head despairingly,

"An errand I have to run first thing in the morning…"

"But my rehearsals!" Christine felt the hurt rise, her face growing hot under the disappointment. She could tell he had forgotten. He smiled,

"Ah of course. An excuse to get out of doing it."

 **OoOOOoOoOoOoO**

Nadir had not forgotten a thing but he daren't tell her about his note and yet, he was sure the note and the key were of the same origin as his. But Miss Daae's hurt expression made him regret his words. She had such a childishness about her that never went away, simultaneously endearing and infuriating. He told her it was important and that he would be there but perhaps a little late. This seemed to satiate Christine's sulk enough.

They bid each other good night's and parted ways. The young receptionist sat quite puzzled all the way through and would puzzle away until his shift ended. Puzzling over how odd the receivers of these things were and why they'd refrained from the truth of the odd man in a lonely mask.

Of course Nadir's note was of no relevance to any errands he had to run. It was from Erik.

 _Why is the older De Chagny boy not dead?  
I was under the impression that the Siren had him.  
Alive to get in my way again.  
Damn you._

 _Kind Regards  
E _

"'Kind Regards'…" Nadir repeated to himself as he sat in a chair by the fire, a brandy in his right hand, the note in his left. He'd written several notes in response but not of them seemed to do it. It would appear that the note, despite how badly Nadir wanted to lash out and respond, was not meant to be responded too. He had decided that after his last and most lethal response was a simple;

 _Why aren't you?  
No Regards Whatsoever. _

He took a sip of his strong, oaky brandy and mulled over the coming days. Christine seemed unperturbed by the Phantom's rather forward gesture.  
He was amazed by Erik's keenness to have her simply walk back into his life. He supposed it was inevitable but he had practically given her the key to his house.

A quite rap on the door drew his thoughts back to the present and he got up wearily to stand near enough to the door to hear who might be on the other side,

"Who is it?"

"My apologies, Monsieur!" Came Christine's gentle little voice, "May I come in?"

Nadir opened the door instantly to find the young soprano fully dressed and clutching the gift which Erik had given her.

"Mademoiselle?"

"Monsieur, I'm sorry to be calling at such a late hour but Philip is asleep and I have much to talk to you about."

Nadir stepped to the side and allowed Christine access into his humble little hotel room, the receptionist either too big a fan, far too trusting or asleep. Nadir sniffed, offering Christine a seat before taking one himself, back again, by the fire.

"What did your note say?" She asked him instantly.

He should have known that _she_ would have known Erik would send him a letter too.

"Is it about Philip? You cast him a nervous glance – is he in danger?" she pressed. Surprising Nadir with her powers of observation. Daae certainly wasn't dim.

"It was and no. I don't believe he is in any immediate danger but he might very well be in the line of fire…"

"What does that mean?"

"Well, you know Erik, Madam. He'll simply remove whatever's in his way."

Christine gave him a frustrated stare,  
"My past experience of that doesn't work in his favour, Monsieur…"

"This is true…" Nadir answered calmly, thinking about how to reassure her with only his intuition, "Madam, everything will be fine. He's learned a lot since those days, Erik has. He won't risk your love again. I'm sure of it."

"My love…would he dare to assume that? And what if he does? You know him better than the rest of us – you know he's short tempered and insane."

Nadir laughed without thinking but even Christine's dark face couldn't make the smile go away,

"Yes, I'd dare to think a lot of things about Erik, he's insane, indeed, mademoiselle. Fear not."

Christine crossed her arms and thought for a moment, her brow neatly unknotting itself,

"He gave me the key to find him…why would he want anything to do with me three years later?"

"Probably the same reason why you would."

"But I'm not the one with a broken heart…"

"Are you not?" Nadir raised his eyes and Christine went suddenly crimson, she fluttered and stumbled for a time while he waited patiently for her to simply let herself be. Eventually she stopped trying to explain and looked sheepish.

"I do love him, Nadir…I did….just…"

"I understand, Madam. Now we know. Perhaps you and Monsieur Erik are not so different after all. But," Nadir grew suddenly serious, "He's still got his frightful rages and obsessions that never end. It's a part of him and won't ever change. It makes him dangerous. Whatever questions, resolutions and resolves you have in place, I will be there every step of the way – this isn't to be taken lightly."

"I never once thought this a light adventure for a second."

"Good."

Just then, a knock on the door drew them suddenly to silence. Both heads turned to the door in dismay, both thinking the same thing.

"Erik?" Nadir called accusingly, squinting at the door as Christine prepared to make a dash for it.

"No, Monsieur, the night porter. A gentleman has dropped off a note, he has said it is urgent."

"Wearing a mask, I presume…."

The night porter on the other side went suddenly quiet for a time before answering,

"Yes, Monsieur. Quite frightening…"

"The door is open, boy."

The door creaked open and a timid and dark haired, young man with incredibly sharp features shuffled in to give Nadir the note, paused for a second at the sight of Christine Daae and acted momentarily star struck. She smiled at him and he at her and then shuffled out in a stupor.

Nadir chuckled,  
"I imagine he's your greatest fan. He's a lovely boy. Very quiet. I get on quite well with him."

He sighed and unfolded the letter.

"Let's see what he wrote to me…oh," he looked up at her in surprise, "He sends his regards."

"He doesn't, Nadir, what does the note really say."

Nadir's surprise quickly dissolved and he grimaced,

"'She's as beautiful as when I first saw her.'"

"That's it?"

"For you, yes. The rest of it is for me."

"Oh."

"Oh."

 _Please. Stop deterring her journey back to me.  
Twice she almost found me. Twice she found you first.  
It's getting on my nerves. _

**OoOoOoOoOooOOOOooo**

The next morning came without hassle and Christine made her way to the theatre whilst rubbing the remanence of sleep from her eyes. Nadir and Philip would still be asleep but she had gotten used to being up at the crack of dawn to simply breathe in the start of the day before rehearsals. Paris was now no exception.  
It was astoundingly quiet at that time of the morning, it felt as if the world was still asleep. It gave Christine a peace such as she would never know in any other part of the day.  
Fondling the key in her left hand, she was relieved that she didn't have to go through all the madness of trying to get into the theatre without waking anybody, including the manager, up.

The key slotted nicely into the keyhole for the great wooden doors and opening them was surprisingly easy for such heavy looking barriers.

She took in the foyer with a contented sigh before making her way to the stage doors.

She walked onto the stage itself, hearing the buzz of a hundred people sitting in the stalls, the boxes and the what-nots in her head. Standing dead centre, she took a deep breath and raised her arms, feeling her lungs open up. She did all the warm-up exercises that were required of a singer. She loosened up her lips, regulated her breathing and shook herself loose. That was her favourite part, loosening up her body by flinging it around carelessly. She giggled and her spirit got up from its knees to gaze out, as she did, at an audience that would soon be before her.

"That was a marvel to watch, my dear."

The smooth, angelic voice that held the world at its feet, a voice that when it sang sounded as haunting as it did liberating.

She spun around to find the Phantom of the Opera standing before her very eyes with a mask that was different from the one she burnt all those years back. This one was sadder – more typical of a masquerade ball mask than the one he had had.

Her voice caught and she froze. They stared at each other a long time before Erik took in a sharp breath and started to move again, not closer but around. Circling her.

"What were you doing just then? That…jumping. Wonderful, but for the life of me, I can't understand what for…"

Christine swallowed,

"Loosens the body. Allows me to be more free in my movements and, believe it or not, my voice."

"Do you feel free?"

"I do."

"hmm…" he nodded and stopped again, his eyes were so set on her that she felt she daren't looking away but he was looking into her soul and she was simply looking at him. His eyes never roamed from her own. Never once did they swoop down the length of her body.

"Your gala is soon…"

"Hardly mine, it's showcasing –"

"All the latest talent, I'm aware. I'm intrigued as to this new manager. He hasn't been managing for long you know."

"Yes."

"Yes, but he's got a few interesting ideas that only a young mind can fathom." He thought for moment, "I certainly would never have thought of such a thing and yet it's so abundantly obvious."

"What happened to Meg and Madam Giry?" Christine asked suddenly, unable to hold back the need for knowledge.  
It appeared to catch Erik off guard for he faltered for a time,

"I don't quite know. Madam Giry was always very kind and yet, she and young Meg flew by night. This new Manager was quite distressed over their departure. He's quite a sensitive man."

Christine held back a retort for the irony of Erik, of all people, commenting as such was too much to ignore.

"It's a shame," he continued, "I never said goodbye to them."

Christine continued to watch him even as all his thoughts flew through his head and out his eyes, so focused on something on the ground. Following his gaze, Christine noticed the outline of the trapdoor he had hoisted them down through when he had kidnapped her. The Trapdoor Lover, as he was called then.

"Do…do…do you n-need any…assistance? In-in your rehearsals?"

Christine looked up in surprise. Erik was standing quite timidly before her with his arms poised curiously in the air, opening his chest to her. Christine was sure that were she to reject the offer, that open gesture would close instantaneously and never open again.

She thought about it, returning to the memory of her escapade the night before.

"It was you last night all a long? With all those notes and the key…"

His shoulders fell a little bit,

"Yes, my dear, it was indeed. I'm glad it came in use." He looked about him at the empty theatre before letting his eyes rest on her again.

She nodded only once, crossing her hands in front of her waist and establishing herself as the one in charge. If he was to assist her in her rehearsal for the big night once more then he would do it in her charge.

"Very well." She told him, delighting a wee bit in his apparent surprise.

* * *

 **And the plot thickens. Whatever will happen next?**

 **Don't forget your reviews. Ta :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N So this, hopefully, finally starts putting things into motion. Hold on..  
And apologies for the brief hiatus, I found myself to be a little overwhelmed with a great many things and this kinda fell into the back ground. I also lost the way a little - a went back to read all my chapters and realised..."oh. What?"** **So I was re-editing all future chapters. Cheers.**

* * *

She had agreed…miraculously agreed.  
Erik stood silent for a moment before bowing in acknowledgment, resisting the urge to fall at her feet and tell her once again how wonderful she was to see a shred of light enough to allow him to not only listen to her but tutor her again.

He sniffed, also acknowledging her show of dominance.

"Wonderful. I'm honoured. When would you like to begin?"

She narrowed her eyes at him and glanced at the time on a clock that hung just inside of the stage wings,

"We could start today."

"Today."

"Yes. Wear your mask, Erik, but tutor me here on the stage. I'm not going to your house across the lake if my life depended on it. Not again."

He cringed,

"I'm supposed to haunt the Opera House, my dear, what would the people say were the ghost to suddenly appear to them as a man of flesh and blood and your teacher?"

"Nobody need know your true identity. Isn't that the point of your mask?"

"One of many."

"So be it. Be the ghost and be my tutor. I'll address you as…?"

 _Your lover?_

"Monsieur will be fine."

"I'll be Christine."

Erik gazed at her a long time, a small little grin growing bigger – such a mangled thing but he wanted touch her!

"What song will you be singing?"

"'Think of Me.'"

Erik took pause. That song had a great many meanings behind it; it was a well suited aria.

"Very…good."

"You don't approve?" She looked a bit put out before recovering, "I suppose it doesn't really matter. It's not meant for you or for anyone else. It's for Raoul."

"Monsieur De Chagny." Erik bowed again, a show of recognition for the late and bigger man.

"Yes." she spared him a small smile, "Right then, Monsieur, allow me to warm up."

Erik stepped away and listened to her beautiful voice take wing. He was right where he was supposed to be as her voice got louder and louder and more confident with each note.

He felt his heart clench and his soul knelt before her grace, he loved her still. So very much it was unbelievable.

Then she started to sing. Each word was well pronounced, each syllable hung just so enough to guide the listeners on in their journey through the music. Then her voice cracked and he jumped at the sudden jolt of a mishap.

She clutched her throat and made a face, glanced at him and began to laugh,

"My God! I can't believe that still happens to me!"

She was laughing.

"I can't say that was ever expected…" he mused aloud, still surprised at her sudden lack of perfection.

"No!" she wheezed through her giggles, "It never is, is it. Oh dear, I hope that's the last time."

"Hmm…herbal tea before every performance, I think. To help. And your breathing; it's too shallow. You took more than a few breaths at the incorrect intervals."

"Oui, Prof." she answered him, nervous yet again as he took a step forward, placing a hesitant hand on either of her shoulders and straightening her back.

"I saw you warm up and open your lungs but the moment you started singing, your posture changed. Do you normally slouch or is it the song?"

"Probably the song."

"What is it about the song that makes you do it?"

Christine had a whirr of thoughts that would do for incomplete answers. He waited very patiently and yet she was afraid to confide in him. How could she?

"Christine, I cannot help you if I don't know what causes you to shy away from the song…"

"Do you ask me this only in accordance with wanting to help?"

Erik took a step away, shying away from a loaded question.

"I do."

Just like that, the idea of it being a loaded question seemed utterly absurd as she opened up as if it were natural.

"I suppose it scares me. All the memories attached to it and the likes. You know this, Monsieur." She told him without looking, "You know it as well as I do."

Erik didn't answer, he didn't particularly want to.

"Then face it." He told her determinedly, "Sing it as if it is a new song entirely and forget the memories. In fact..."

With a hop in his step, an idea that was forming abruptly and with joy, Erik walked to the edge of the stage wings where the rehearsal piano was set and ready. He sat down,

"How about this."

He began to play the tune but in place of the melancholy signature of the song, he played a more upbeat tune.

"Instead of the painful memory this song is trying to convey – what if this beautiful woman was off on an adventure of some kind. What if, her waking up silent and resigned is missing home."

"It's still quite sad, Monsieur."

"Yes, but the audience doesn't have to know it's sad at the time, now do they. The music is what people come for – the lyrics aren't necessarily taken into account the first time or in some cases, ever."

"You've thought about this a lot."

"All I ever do is think about music, Christine. Music and you-"

He broke off and stared at her, wishing he hadn't said what he had. But she didn't return his gaze.

"Shall we try it, Madam?" He asked her hesitantly,

She nodded.

"Good. Come in on three."

Three bars he did and then she began to sing.  
First it was too fast. Then it was too slow. Then it was ridiculous and flat out awful all together. But soon they got it.

"Breathe, Madam, for goodness sake."

Christine would cast him a foul glance every so often and he would refuse to acknowledge the hurt it inspired for he was her teacher and nothing more.

At present.

They'd been practising for almost two hours before they came to the conclusion that it was useless. Erik could see Christine's heart had long let go of the song. She was clinging onto a past that simply had no right to be there.

He stopped his jaunty playing abruptly and Christine's voice faded in a haunting wail more than anything else. Still beautiful and still very much on point but the song kept returning to its sad, melancholy roots.

The side doors to theatre suddenly flew open and in marched Monsieur Angier, Nadir and Philip – behind them, the flutter of people began to stir. In the silence of the moment pre-Angier-speech, Erik could also hear the whisperings that were beginning to circulate about the great Mademoiselle Daae and the masked man teaching her.

Old rumours for a new generation. Erik smirked and turned to the oncoming traffic.

Angier, however froze almost instantaneously – as did Philip De Chagny (Erik scowled), in fact the only person who appeared to be unperturbed by the occurrence was Nadir. Always Nadir.

Erik rolled his eyes and stood up from his seat while Christine bowed and uttered something of a good morning to them.

"Monsieur Angier, what a pleasure it is to see you again." Erik inclined his head towards Nadir and the manager who looked on in a stunned confusion.

"Monsieur…" he croaked.

Nadir said nothing, waiting for the plan to be made clear albeit glaring at Erik suspiciously.

"Monsieurs," Christine started uncertainly, glancing at Erik who dared to glance back, "This is my Prof. He'll be assisting me in my rehearsals. I trust this is acceptable as I see you, Monsieur Angier, and Monsieur Prof have met before?"

Erik stared hard at Angier, willing him to understand his very real threat. Angier took a moment to realise it, his head wincing twice over between Nadir (Who looked expectant) and Philip (Who was enlightened).

"Of course!" he exclaimed when the light suddenly shone upon his being, "This is a very promising endeavour. However…"

Angier's face grew hot and Erik could see the uncertainty that came with voicing his thoughts. Oh how he revelled in the power he held over these people.

"However?" Erik prompted.

"Don't do that song."

Erik straightened, as did Christine. Nadir looked more than a little surprised at the bluntness of the new Manager. Philip looked undisturbed, but his curiosity was peaked.

"Why, Monsieur, what was wrong with it? I thought it quite intriguing."

Erik rolled his eyes but Monsieur Angier appeared to be steaming ahead of him,

"If you listen to the lyrics, Monsieur, you'll find a jovial tune doesn't suit."

"I've heard it before, Monsieur, and I beg to differ. It's a new take." Philip grinned up at Christine. Christine dared to smile back and Erik almost whisked Christine away with him again – just like he had imagined many a time following her departure. In his dreams, however, she walked straight into his arms and leaving with her in tow was easy.

"That's very kind, Philip but Monsieur Angier is right. The song doesn't suit the tune." Christine bowed conceded, giving Angier a sheepish curtsy.

"Not one bit." Angier added grimly.

"So, Monsieur Prof is going to write an entirely new aria-" Christine turned abruptly to Erik, clapping her hands together hopefully.

Erik felt his eyes glaze over and a new canvas unravel itself before him. He turned back to Christine,

"I beg your pardon, Madam?"

By that stage, Christine turned away from him and back to the others to explain her idea. Her disastrous plan.

"An entirely new aria which he will have two days to write."

"But you perform in three!" Angier protested, throwing his arms up in panic, "How can you possibly learn an entire aria in a day?"

"It's not impossible." She shrugged.

Erik shook his head,

"To learn a song? No. To write an entire orchestral piece in two days, on the other hand!"

"No one said it had to be with an orchestra." Christine turned to him with a simplicity about her that was unnerving, "The piano will do fine. Just write the score with passion in mind even if it is as simple as three notes. The most passionate and marvellous of songs are often merely three notes long."

Erik gazed at her, dumbfounded. Angier's mouth was agape. Philip, still in the dark, muttered,

"That's very daring, Christine…"

Christine seemed suddenly ashamed. It angered Erik for he knew Philip was thinking that this truly ludicrous idea would dishonour the late Viscomt. How dare he? If anyone could make it work, it would surely be Christine and himself, Erik.

"I best get to work, then, gentlemen. My Lady," he bowed and bowed again, holding back the hiss he so badly wanted to cut down the Older De Chagny man with, "Comt De Chagny."

Turning on his heal, he stole a last glimpse of Christine. She was terrified, regretting her decision already.  
But Erik had made up his mind – he could do it and he would. He would write Christine the most stunning aria Paris – no, the WORLD would ever hear!

 **OoOoOoOOOoooOOO**

Nadir, with hands behind his back rocked to and fro on his heels for a time before speaking.

"Very brave indeed."

Christine caught his eye, bright with worry and dismay at her decision.

Beside him, the Comt De Chagny grew restless,

"What are we to do now? What will _you_ do?"

Christine stayed very still before she answered, careful not to trip over any careless responses,

"I shall continue to sing whatever I have to sing. It's important I keep my voice warm and ready."

Philip was obviously displeased with the flamboyancy of the idea. Spontaneity had no place as a memorial. Not for a family as old and as respected as the De Chagny's.

He grunted, bowed with a scowl still in place and departed.

Once the door had shut and all were positive that he was out of ear shot, everyone started speaking at once.

"What the devil?!" Angier was saying.

"I can explain!" Christine was trying to respond.

"This is madness…" Nadir said relatively simply amidst the raised voices, "You're all insane."

Then there was silence, eyes on Nadir who held his ground such as he had always done.

"You're dragging yourself into the beginnings of another nightmare, Madam. Forgive me my rudeness, Ms Daae for I mean not to impugn your own grief but you have no idea how difficult it was for him to move past you and now this?"

Christine looked thoroughly taken aback. Monsieur Angier knew full well to back away from the situation and gently dissolved into the background.

"I don't mean to-" she tried but Nadir was putting his foot down and at that present moment, it was only half way.

"I was worried, Madam, for your sake not too long ago. You might recall. But now I worry for his. I recognise the need for closure, I do. But getting him to write a love aria, for you, for Raoul? Is that not just a bit too much for any of us?"

"I've never asked him to write the lyrics." She answered with a quiet way about her that calmed all seas – it was the beauty that Erik was subjected too in times of his madness. Nadir grew quite still.

"I asked him to write the music with the passion. I'll consider this my eulogy – I have enough words of my own. All I have to do is fit them to the music he will have written. But of course, if my meaning was unclear to you then it will have been unclear to him and I must fix it."

She turned to leave, to find a way back to Erik's lair, only then did Nadir suddenly start forward.

"No, Madam!"

She turned, a look of shock plastered on her lovely but tired face. Angier had barely taken a breath.

"I will clarify it with him. I think it's high-time him and I have a proper talk."

She nodded,  
"As you wish, Monsieur."

 **OoOoOoOOOooooO**

Nadir didn't go immediately. He needed to let his thoughts run their course first. He needed to watch Ms Daae more closely for there had come a change he had not realised before. A change in her person. A more feminine and dominating presence about her.  
Nadir supposed it had always been there. The intoxicating allure of a woman with power – the difference was, now, that she was aware of it and knew how to use it.

Angier and himself sat at the back of the theatre as the arrangements and rehearsals took place for when and how Christine was to enter the stage alongside the others. The new talent performed and Nadir had to admit, he was impressed. Carlotta was the same. A nightmare to deal with but just as lovely as ever to the tastes of those who enjoyed her music. Nadir was one of them.

It must be said that she took her new, smaller part with much more ease than was anticipated. It was another thing that added to frayed nerves. Neither her or Christine said a word to each other.

"I can't believe what has just occurred!" Angier was saying in a quiet but very nervous tone, "No one is aware and yet it feels as if the Opera House has been turned on its head."

Nadir nodded slowly, his thoughts drifting uneasily from one thing to the next,

"It tends to happen when these two are brought together."

"Much to my misinformation. This farce was supposed to be over."

"It's a rather twisted love story, Monsieur, it will never end. Especially not now when Mademoiselle Daae is as confused as a cow in a horse field."

"Well, I do hope she works out her feelings quickly. If my encounter with this Opera Ghost, now Opera tutor, is anything to go by – this could be disastrous for my career. I'd never manage another theatre again!"

Nadir cast him an ironic glance,  
"It will throw us all into the dust, Monsieur. At least you won't be alone."

When Angier turned to him with a look of horror, Nadir tried to smile but earned nothing in return. He sighed,

"We're all in this now. My biggest concern is the Comt De Chagny."

"Ah, yes…the poor man doesn't know." Angier sounded suddenly very wise. Oh, how old Nadir felt in that moment.

"The dramatic irony of having completely and utterly obliviously met his rival."

"There is no rivalry, Monsieur, I assure you. Monsieur Le Comt harbours no romantic feelings towards Ms Daae."

"You're a fool if you believe that," Monsieur Angier commented dryly, "Otherwise this wouldn't worry me so much. What's that old saying that comes and goes…ah yes, history repeats itself."

Nadir shifted uncomfortably,

"I don't believe we will have a repeat so soon of that mess. The only man at fault then was our Ghost. All of us are aware now, save for Philip. We are all, also, letting this peculiar turn of circumstance go its own way. We are all responsible. But I think it wise we keep the Comt in the dark for now or he might very well be the one to send us all to our graves."

"I believe this is a wise thing. But Ms Daae can handle that consequence, no?"

Angier looked hopefully over at Nadir who refused to meet his gaze. He didn't have an answer. He very rarely did, as it would so happen but he was mostly able to come up with something to soothe the senses but not this time.

He had no control and no idea. He was no longer the helmsman with the key to all secrets unbeknownst to everyone whom they involved.

He stood up abruptly,

"Excuse me, Monsieur. I must go to my friend."

" _Friend?"_ Angier exclaimed but Nadir had not the mind to argue.

He left Angier sitting there in his bewilderment and disappeared into the bowels of the Opera House. He descended into the darkness, down the flight of stairs, past the rat catcher (Amazing that that poor man was still there!) and on towards the lake that seemed nothing more than a hole in the ground to one without the knowledge.

The boat, however, was a give-away and oddly enough, still on his side of the lake. There was no sign of life coming from the house on the other side either.

Nadir hesitated before climbing rather flimsily into the little boat and rowed himself across. Feeling his age in the way his arms struggled to pull him like they used too.

Upon entering Erik's house, there was no music that greeted him. There was no sign of Erik. Things were untouched, there was no reckless home wreckage which was a sure sign that Erik was either gone or dumbfounded by the turn of events.

He was simply gone. A small note left on the organ in the Louis Philip Room told Nadir so. Nadir was always quite surprised how well Erik was able to predict his arrival. That or he guessed regularly and happened to be right – guessed…or hoped. The latter tugged at Nadir's heart strings and he headed straight out of the house along the Rue Scribe to exit the gate that lead to the road that was to be crossed in order to get to the park not far away.

There he found Erik sitting on the bench with his legs crossed, hands folded in his lap and staring out over the pond. Later in the morning but still early enough for people to be still in the process of considering the park more than deciding upon it. They had time.

"So you did come." Erik didn't bother to cast a glance at Nadir.

The Persian eased himself down, wincing at the click of his knees.

"Oh, you know I always come when things go a bit awry."

Erik gave a short, curt nod as a response.

A few moments passed as the two sat in silence, Nadir waiting for Erik to say whatever it was that was keeping him from writing his aria for Christine.

"I have no music for this." He said simply, "There's nothing that comes to mind. No inspiration. No feeling. How can I write an aria about lost love when I don't feel anything? I do but not for the damned loss of the boy!"

"You do know you don't have to write the words."

Erik seemed to deflate,

"Hmm…I suppose that simplifies things a bit. I suppose you clarified that out of your own confusion?"

"And your health, yes."

"My health?"

"You're mentally unstable, Erik. Yes, your health."

Erik finally did glance at Nadir and the Persian could just feel the stony glare.

"So I don't have to write the words."

"No."

If Nadir wasn't so accustomed to Erik's lack of responsive gestures towards anything, he might have thought the masked man slumped a little. But that could not be.

"The music is still the problem. I need inspiration. A dead Viscomt doesn't do much to ensnare the senses, Daroga. I don't care for the boy."

"Then don't write it for him."

"What?"

"Well, you're not writing the words so Christine needn't know that the song is for her."

"She would know."

Nadir cast his arrogant friend a curious look but Erik didn't bother to explain. So Nadir shook his head,

"So be it." He leant in towards Erik, as if to tell him a secret, "Write the music for her – about her – what have you, if she knows, she knows. After all, it would be nothing new. Besides, again I say, you're not writing the words. You don't have to declare your love again."

Erik slid away from Nadir in discomfort but considered his words carefully while Nadir looked amused.  
Erik was just a man. Prone to discomfort and embarrassment no matter how hard he tried to differentiate himself from humanity.

"Very well…" he said softly, beginning to look around at the steadily growing masses entering the park for the day was indeed lovely. Nadir had begun to notice too. People were casting curious glances their way. Erik was beginning to stand out.

"I will write this music," he told Nadir determinedly and then with a tenderness that took Nadir by surprise, "It will be for Christine. Again."

* * *

 **D'aaahw. Reviews are good. :)**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N So I may be incorporating some of ALW's musical references into this but nothing major (See what I did there? ;) ) Anyway.**

* * *

Erik sat quite still, staring blankly at his little piece of parchment. His house was deathly silent with naught but his thoughts that floated about him. Musical notes and ideas whirred unwittingly into the forefront of his mind, made themselves clear before him but the moment he was to write them down, they disappeared. The beauty of his feelings could not be put onto paper. Paper was no place for longing.

He put his head in his hands,

"Two days, Erik. How can you put so many years of desire and love into two days?" He slapped his skull and let out a growl of despair.

He tore up the empty parchment violently and sent the tiny pieces to flutter down around him like snow. Then he was calm.  
He let out a long, drawn out breath and then…an idea.

He sat up straight and let the idea take hold. Too scared to reach for a pen or paper.

Carefully, though, he stood up. The idea still very clear, he walked cautiously out of his house towards his boat and ferried himself across. Gently, gently.  
Once out, he moved as quickly as he could without leaving the idea behind. It was the dead of night when he finally surfaced from the belly of the Opera House but Christine (as he had suspected) was still there.  
The manager, Benoit Angier was there too but he was falling asleep on one of the front row seats when Erik finally entered the stage. Christine had not noticed him arrive. She was singing something very softly, a lullaby almost as she swayed her body like the ocean would ebb and flow. He imagined her in water. The idea grew more vivid.

"Christine."

He said it without thinking and without the manners of a gentleman.

She jumped, her trance and his breaking instantaneously.

"Erik!" She squeaked awkwardly.

Erik felt himself crumple slowly, stepping away into the shadows,

"Forgive me, Madam."

"N-not at all, I – " she started but she broke off and gazed over the empty Opera House thoughtfully, glancing up at Box 5 before turning back to him. All the while, Erik had followed her gaze and watched her thoughts.

He cocked his head and she appeared to mimic him which he found amusing in the quiet recess of his mind.

Straightening, he gathered his wits and addressed her again,

"Madam, I have a request. I wonder if you might oblige me with a little inspiration."

"You're the Angel of Music, Monsieur. Anything and everything inspires you."

"…Contrary to popular belief. An oxymoron if you will, for geniuses are believed to be able to conjure up anything of significance to their particular genius. But what the facts don't tell you is that something needs to inspire it. Sometimes, the inspiration needs to be standing before them doing the action that brings about the genius. In your case, Madam, I need you to stand as you were, lost in your head while your voice sang out the heavens and the earth."

"You may sit and watch, then, monsieur. Will that satisfy?"

"I dare say…" he glanced at Angier and tentatively shied away from Christine even further,  
"No."

"No?" Christine frowned then stepped away too, prompting him to follow her, stepping forward again. He tried not to, but it was in him. Old habits die hard. He would always follow.

"Why, it is important. The notes die before they've been put down, my Angel! My music needs you."

He paused for a moment, wondering what he had left out before promptly adding,

"Please."

But Christine glanced at Angier, shifting and faulting his snores, as she shook her head.

He was about to stride forward in an effort to make her understand the genius of the idea that was taking form. Her presence was of the utmost importance. As it had always been!

But Angier woke up with a startled grunt and Erik stopped mid-stride while Christine looked over at him fearfully.

"Madam?" Angier croaked groggily, rubbing his eyes, Erik coming in to more clarity, "Monsieur?"

"Monsieur." Erik greeted coolly wishing the manager to sink into his seat and…

Die, quite frankly. But he couldn't kill anyone just now. Not when Christine had entrusted him with so important a mission.

Angier glanced uncertainly between the two, torn between a fear of the unknown and the need to be a gentleman knight in shining armour. He stood,

"What's all this?"

"A meeting between student and teacher, what does it look like?" Erik spat irritably, desperate to get back to trying to convince Christine of his wish.

Angier frowned but didn't spit back, opting to take signals from the lady. Erik turned his solid, unwavering stare to her. He stared at her a long while without blinking, gauging what she was to say in response to his own answer.  
Her mouth opened and closed several times, eyes darting between ghost and saviour.

"It's a meeting indeed. Impromptu meeting, of course. Entirely unplanned or else I would have told you. Minor disagreement, though. You'd understand."

Erik was satisfied with that. Angier, however, showed clear signs of disbelief,

"Aha."

"We're fine, Monsieur. You should get on before you fall asleep in the theatre again. Ghosts are in the theatre. Not all ghosts come and go without leaving some damage…" Erik told the manager darkly, the threat oozing through the gaps in the words. Angier was not a dim man and caught onto the reference as quickly as one might expect.

Christine was staring at him through wide eyes but Angier failed to interpret _that_. Erik, however, recognised fear when he saw it. Especially in his Ange de musique. How often had he seen that look?

"Madam-?" Angier dared to enquire. Alas.

"Monsieur Angier!"

Angier's attention shot straight back to Erik on his command but Erik said no more.

Angier began to back away carefully, glancing at Christine every so often so as to catch a cue of heroic need but nothing came. Christine's gaze had wavered and she was gazing without seeing at the edge of the stage by the orchestra pit.

Erik watched him go stonily before the manager disappeared through the door.

 _You're off to get the Daroga. I know full well._

Erik turned back to Christine, preparing to speak but instead she spoke first with a knife.

 **OoOOOoOoOoOoOoO**

"You haven't changed."

"…I don't know what you mean."

"You know full well what I mean. Unless of course, you've forgotten all that has been?"

Christine made sure to look at this man, Erik with as hard a gaze as she could muster. But she was afraid. Again. Asking him to help was a foolish idea and it had just now become apparent. Here, in these moments where Erik had made a threat, he made her hope for protection leave and made her lie.

This was no damned meeting of professionalism.

She was alone with him. She felt vulnerable and helpless. A ghastly feeling.

Erik was silent as he considered her. If she didn't know any better, she'd say he was a little hurt. He straightened himself,

"God and whatever Devil is out there knows that I would never forget. So I still frighten you, it would seem."

"You're frightening."

"Without trying. Why do I not rule the world?"

"Because you are frightened of the world. Just as it is frightened of you."

"Vicious little loop."

"You brought it upon yourself, you know."

"Unfortunately, I do know this. Thank you for your insight. Now –"

"There is no 'now'. I will not take kindly to being frightened. The answer is 'no', Erik."

Meanwhile, she was terrified that he would whisk her away again. She never did find out how to get out of his house on her own.

But Erik did no such thing. He simply watched her walk away from him. She could feel his eyes on her as she retreated down the stairs of the stage towards the exit.  
Just as she thought she had made it, however, he was in front of her, blocking her way, all but crying at her feet.

"You have too! Erik nee – I need you! I cannot write this aria without you, my Christine, it's _for_ you! You have to understand!"

He was clutching at the tendrils of her skirts, not quite kneeling but apparently prepared too.

"Erik, please let go of my skirts." She tried to pry them from out of his hands but his grip only tightened. He took advantage, however, of the proximity of her hands and caught them instead.

Good God, his hands were cold as ice and his grip as strong as iron. She could feel herself beginning to bruise around her wrists.

"Christine, you asked me to do this – how can you ask me and not expect me to need you in order to fulfil your wish? Please!"

"You're hurting me, Erik, please!"

His eyes lit up and widened. Suddenly he was on his feet, taking one, two, many steps away and to the side. Allowing her to pass him by in his sudden silence. It made her all the more weary.  
She was just about out when he called to her, his voice calm and collected. Turning back to find him as he was when she had first met him – a powerhouse of a spectre. An eerie power emanating from his person. A disturbing change for she didn't know whether his act of hysteria was an act or a digression back to their days in the past.

"You asked for my help, Madam. It is only fair that I ask for yours. Oblige me and you shall have your aria."

His sudden piety and change in his communication worried her just as much as the sudden change of character.

"And if I choose not too?"

He shrugged,

"Well then, sing alone to your own melodious tune."

That didn't seem right as an answer. Not if she thought she knew him.

"…And?"

His eyes glinted something terrible, crinkling at the corners by means of a horrible little smile.

"And? There's no 'and', Christine. Only that of the singular consequence of letting your dear Raoul down. You're entirely unprepared and appear to be unable to sing 'Think of Me'. It's unthinkable to have such a failure with a reputation such as yours."

"What makes you think I'll fail? I've been trained to endure these things. And failure's nothing new, Erik. You have no idea how many Mountains I've climbed only to fall over the other side of a cliff." she retorted angrily, "What do you want from me this time?"

Erik's devilish little glint didn't falter and Christine was beginning to regret asking for his help.

"I have no doubt that you've been trained in all sorts of trickery. But you haven't been taught to excel under pressure."

"Are you offering to teach me?"

"No, I'm offering to help you avoid that. Avoid disappointing the masses and the De Chagny's with a mediocre performance of some well-known Aria from God-knows-where. All I ask, is that you help _me_ in return. A fair deal, I would have thought."

"Yes well, you think a little differently."

Erik bowed his head,

"Yes. I think differently more and more everyday thanks to the likes of a soprano I heard sing once."

Christine went silent. She had nothing to say to him. The conversation had taken a strange turn and it balanced on the fine line between dangerous and wise. There was undoubtedly loads more she could learn from him. But there was undoubtedly a screw still loose in his brilliant mind.

"Erik? Madam Daae?"

Both turned upon seeing Nadir gliding towards them, his gaze sceptical and chin at an angle. His sharp eyes were drifting easily between Soprano and Teacher, gauging the situation.

Christine had never been more relieved in all her life. She instinctively stepped towards her hero as he approached but Erik took no notice. His gaze was locked on the Persian. A look of pure dislike.

"What is going on here?" Nadir demanded.

Erik cocked his head,  
"If you must know, we're trying to strike a deal. As you suggested."

"I suggested no such thing!" Nadir glanced nervously at Christine. She felt herself begin to frown as doubt began to wriggle through her core. She didn't distrust Nadir in the slightest but she had forgotten about the closeness of their relationship. Raoul had recounted the Persian's tale to her post-rescue 3 years ago.

She had no doubt that Nadir would keep her safe, besides, that was what he was here for. He was also very wise and prone to giving advice. Advice on a normal person would go with what was actually said. Advice to Erik, though, might very well be distorted and yet make perfect sense to the listener. So much so that Nadir might even begin to question himself. That being said, they'd obviously met prior to this moment in private so, what did Nadir say to him?

"Maybe in not so many words but-"

"Don't make this my doing, Ghost. You know what my position is here. Don't push me."

"It's rude to interrupt, Nadir." Erik told the Persian coolly.  
Nadir glared straight back whilst poor Christine was stuck amidst this peculiar interaction. Unable to leave, unable to be a part of it.

"Forgive me," Nadir scowled, "I rather thought that whatever you had to say was irrelevant but if you have anything you'd like to add that does not make me look like the villain, by all means."

"Considering the fact that you're not actually a part of the original discussion; I have nothing at all to say to or about you."

Nadir and Erik stared at each other a long while before Nadir turned slowly to Christine, drawing his eyes from the Phantom almost with reluctance,

"You may go, if you so desire, Ms Daae."

"No, she may not. We're not finished." Erik interjected, making to step in front of Christine but Nadir, much to the dismay of all present shoved him back drawing an eerie silence filled with an electric buzz. The next move had to be a careful one.

Erik cocked his head at Nadir, an amused sneer shining through his golden eyes – reminiscent of the ghastly horrors he was capable of both enduring and inflicting.

He straightened his waist coat and pulled his tail-coat more snuggly about his person,

"You'd do well not to do that again, Daroga."

"Ms Daae," Nadir urged her again, without taking his eyes off of Erik, "You may leave…if you so desire."

Erik made no move to stop her this time but he did watch her go with a curiously keen interest.  
She laid a tentative hand upon the door handle that allowed her to leave the main theatre and enter the foyer but no sooner had she turned the knob than was she stuck by the dread of leaving Nadir alone with him. Friends or not, Erik had intended to kill Nadir just the same all those years back.

She felt both their eyes; oddly capable of telling the difference of who was feeling what without looking at them. Erik's gaze felt harder and more imposing. Manipulating without the use of words. He had her caught and he knew it.

Nadir's gaze was gentler, sadder and though she knew he stood tall between her and the Phantom, he too, was aware that she was caught.

She turned back, feeling a mix of powerless anger and fear rise in her as she addressed Erik without looking at Nadir.

"Alright, Monsieur, let's strike our deal. I'll help you if you help me."

Nadir's submissive sigh did not go unnoticed and Erik had about him a despicable air of triumph which made Christine feel sick. Why, in the good God's name, had she thought it a good idea to abide by Raoul's request and come back to endure this ghastly man.

"Don't feel too proud, Erik." Nadir told him softly, making his weary way towards Christine and the exit that lay beyond her, "She didn't do it because she wants too. She's saving my life."

"I dare say she succeeded."

"You shouldn't have to say anything of the sort…ever. To anyone."

Then Nadir was gone, having given Christine one last sad, little smile in acknowledgment of her selflessness.

When he was gone, the door having clicked behind him, Christine felt the pregnancy of the silence that ballooned in the distance that separated Erik from herself.

"What is it that you require of me?"

Erik, remaining true to his unpredictable self, suddenly changed in demeanour and stature and became utterly pathetic and helpless, drawing out his hands from behind his back where he had placed them, no doubt, to hide the constant furl and unfurling of his fists.

"My Christine!" He cried, all but falling towards her, long strides with an uncharacteristic lack of grace, "My Christine, I'm sorry! I would never hurt him no more than I would hurt you! I can't! He's my conscience, you see. What would I do without my conscience? I was just desperate, I need you, you understand!"

His conscience? What utter, utter rubbish. Christine could only stare in bewilderment as he clutched her dress again.

"Erik, I understand, please, stop this nonsense, you're scaring me." She stammered, trying once more to release herself from his iron hold.

At once he let up and rose to his feet with a swift and irresistible grace that left Christine suddenly breathless. However, he looked awkward and uncomfortable though he said nothing more.

"What do you want from me?" She asked him guardedly for the third time, determined to get a tangible answer, not fully believing that he truly never would hurt the Persian.

"Come back with me to my home so that I may have my music and my organ in front of me. Act…yourself."

 _Act yourself._  
Act. Yourself.

"I can't act, Erik…" Christine told him quietly, shrugging ever so slightly, "I don't know how to act 'myself' as you so put it. I don't even know what that means…"

Erik was quiet a moment before he seemed suddenly to have an epiphany, a devastating realisation of his own warped sense of the human-race – he began to cry.

"No, you don't have too! You have never needed to act for all the world is a stage and you fit every character. I've tried to fit into it too, but there's no place for me! Only you. I can create a world that fits us both, Christine – I can play and not have to act. You can sing and dance and _live,"_ he gestured passionately through wet eyes, "and I will write this aria for you, all I need is for you to…"

He trailed off, unable to finish his sentence for it seemed the very notion of whatever it was he was to suggest was utterly incomprehensible.

"To?" Christine dared to step forward, willing him to speak freely for she was moved by his sudden all-fall-down. She had forgotten about these dramatic episodes where Erik's self-loathing gave way to the means to forgive him his sins.

He was despicable – but he was broken.

"It doesn't matter." He snapped sharply, all trace of his sensitivity was buried beneath this mask of power once again. Gone was that pathetic outlet of emotion, all desperation was swept away in a new current of demand.

"Alright." Christine tried to settle her shoulders, her tension and attempted the air of calm.

To her surprise, it appeared to work.

Erik stopped his unsettling fidgeting and gazed at her, his eyes soft, bright and yet somewhat surprised. Christine folded her hands in front of her and waited patiently for him to say something, trying hard not to look away from his eyes that bored into her with an emotion she dare not name.

"All I need," Erik started, picking up from where he left off in his tirade, calmly now, all earthly qualms stilled, "Is for you to…t…to feel comffffortable. In. my…presence."

He began to fidget again. Christine was overwhelmed by the simplicity of the request, by its sincerity and by how sad and awkward this ghost was about it.

No human ever requested a body to feel comfortable with them, it was either they did, or did not. The choice was always clear.  
Erik had clearly been denied the encounters that would have taught him to tell the difference.

No doubt he was aware of how it worked but he'd only ever gotten discomfort from his interactions whether it be from his counterpart or them and himself.

"I'll try, Erik. I will," Christine moved toward him on a whim, without thought, taking his arm and feeling him freeze beneath her touch, "Promise me, however, that you will accommodate _my_ comfort."

"How?"

"I'll tell you."

 **OoOOOOOOOooooooOoOoOooO**

The next morning, Erik was watching the rehearsals from his box. They looked promising, as he stroked his chin with the fingertips of his thumb and forefinger.  
Then, like thunder, the door burst open from one of the exits to his right and Erik, having leaned ever so slightly over the balcony to see what the disturbance was. Instantly, he felt his spirits sink. He rolled his eyes and sat back.

"Where is Daae? CHRISTINE!" Carlotta roared in, Angier was following her in tid-bits, shuffling in a hurry to keep up, trying to speak amidst the fire.

"Signora?"

Erik bolted upright, peering down once more to see Christine appearing through the same doors as Carlotta, a vision of grace with that same air of powerful dignity Erik had encountered when he had first spied her upon her return.

It gave Carlotta pause, Christine's new found character. It gave them all pause.

* * *

 **A/N So what are we thinking. Yes? No? Maybe? I like reviews :)**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N Uh...I don't have much to say here other than I've realised I've adopted a mixture of Phantom things from ALW, from the book and from kay's fanfiction thing. So, yeah. Hope you're enjoying it though :)**

* * *

Carlotta cleared her throat, glancing about her uncertainly. Without Piangi, she looked as if she was a little lost…

Or so Erik thought, remembering the fat husband of this atrocity…a little regretful. After countless arguments, Nadir finally managed to knock it into Erik's head that Carlotta was by no means a poor singer – merely a poor performer – but her voice was simply not for everyone.

He grudgingly accepted that truth now and tried to imbed the seed in everyone's thoughts whenever Carlotta was to sing. A little note, a little mishap here and there – just to make her look the fool.

"You are stealing my part…again, Madam. I am not happy!"

Christine curtsied obligingly.

"If you'd like your headline back, Signora, then it is yours by all accounts. Believe me when I say I didn't ask to be put there. I was under the impression that you were aware of this change. You made no move to confront me or anyone about this yesterday…"

This drew out a horrified gasp from everyone within ears reach. Including Erik – again! All his hard work was for nothing! God, the woman was a nightmare!

Angier dared a glance up at Box 5, knowing full well that Erik was there. They stared at each other, each in equal disdain but for differing reasons. Of course.

Carlotta, on the other hand, went quiet. Unsure of how to respond to Christine's gentle surrender.  
It took her a moment, but she found her fire soon enough.

"No, no, no, I was told that I would still be a headlining act but all parts would be cut to accommodate the amount of people taking part!" She shot Angier a foul glance, before turning back to Christine, "Apparently you are headlining us all but no one told me this thing! No, you think, because you are so famous and everyone know your name, that you can spare an old, burn-out like me a spot of sunshine in the midst of your presence?"

"I don't think that at all –"

"Spare me!" Carlotta held up her hand, silencing Christine with her palm.

Erik clenched his fists.

"I don't need your pity, Madamoiselle Daae." Carlotta continued, spitting out the word 'pity' with as much loathsome venom as she could muster, "You will see, that Paris comes to the Opera House to see Carlotta – not some little girl from Sweden who falters on a high E."

Erik was fuming. He got up from his seat, not bothering to listen to what more pathetic little retaliations she had towards Christine Daae. She would know her place again, he swore it.

He waited for a time, not too long, in between the curtains, the wings and the draping cotton of the scene shifters that made the underbelly of the theatre seem labyrinthine.

All types of performers fluttered past him; dancers, singers, contortionists – no doubt for the upcoming ball to celebrate the night's events. He smiled to himself – to celebrate Christine.

"Erik?"

He straightened at the sound of his name, a barely audible whisper upon uncertain and very careful lips. He didn't answer, wanting her to repeat her enquiry, needing to make sure that she would not give up and leave the first chance she got.

It was a shot in the dark for Christine took a long time to say his name again. When he caught site of her, the light streaming in through whichever way it could through the masses of ropes, bridges, suspensions and scenes and lit up her face in streaks. Her eyes were unusually bright. Her cheeks wet.

A sudden and barely controllable fury took a hold of him at the thought of Carlotta piercing Christine's nerves so easily. Despite her growth in grace and womanhood, Christine's skin was still not as thick as he thought it ought to be.

"Erik…I'm here." She whispered at last through a rattled breath.

"I know you're there, I can see you quite clearly, my dear. You're crying."

"I was. I was hoping this wouldn't be such a disaster – Carlotta is too much woman for me."

"Carlotta should not be a part of this showcase. She shouldn't even be here."

Out he stepped from the shadows, revealing himself as the Phantom he was, but the effect was lost on her. She no longer feared him his arbitrary nuances of a man pretending to be a ghost. He was just a man. Yet her breath caught in a moment of anxiety for he was still tall and imposing.

Her next words, though, managed to find the ounce of anger Carlotta had no doubt inspired in her rampage against Christine.

"I know a lot more than you would think and Carlotta has just as much right as anyone to be here. She…dislikes me…because of you. If anyone's at fault, Monsieur…" She let the words trail off into the eeriness of their surroundings, sinking into his bones. "Where do you intend to take us both?"

Erik grimaced, no longer feeling the urgent need to whisk her away to his domain to write ethereal music as an ode to her existence. In fact the idea now sounded and felt rather foolish. He wanted to write music with her around. That fitted better.

"You know where, my dear. Please believe me when I say, were the organ situated in any other place, I'd take us there but incidentally, it is in my house and so to my house we will go."

Christine hesitated, her previously ignited irritability at his person, provoked by the fiendish woman, died away – shrivelling in on itself. A dying ember in the cold shadow of uncertainty.  
Erik waited patiently for her to move past him in the direction his hand was being held aloft too.

"I won't keep you forever…" he told her softly, gently. Trying his best to make sure the sincerity of his claim was clear. But Christine didn't trust him, he knew that.  
That being said, allowing him to take her back to his house was then either very foolish or very brave. He didn't know which one. Christine was a web of peculiarities which he had held a soft spot for ever since they started to show themselves. Peculiarities such as contradicting herself in moments of intimate instinct. In anyone's case, past experiences played a part in future decisions.  
Erik's past almost cost her, her life and yet here she was willing to attempt to overlook the truly horrendous. He was grateful, to say the very, _very_ least.

She lead the way tentatively, following his instructions as to which way and when to turn. He watched her subtle reflexes, the all too human give-aways of anxiety, memory and revelation. Every now and then she'd pause and stare for a long while at what Erik perceived as absolutely nothing, before she continued.

Eventually they came to the lake. Still the same as when he had left it. Still the same as when _she_ had left it.  
When he stepped into his boat, wobbling as it battled the unsteady water and his weight. He lent his hand, half expecting her to ignore and climb in without hassle, putting him to shame. But she didn't.

"Nadir knows where I am." She told him simply, daring to reach for his steady grasp at the same time, "Philip does not but he needn't know."

Erik clasped her dainty fingers, dwarfing her hand in his own, wrapping it up tight as he guided her in.

"Do I have a time limit on how long I am to keep you, then?" he asked her dryly.

"Not too long."

"How long is that?"

"You'll know."

Erik didn't much like the sound of the answer. He didn't much like the idea of Nadir bursting in when the time appeared to be right either.

The water shimmered in the darkness; a mass ripple of darkness that lapped gently against the side of the boat. Ahead of them, the faint glimmer of light that signified Erik's home.  
He got out of the boat first, reaching out his hand once more to assist. She took it without question, without looking at him.

She stopped at the threshold of his doorway. Eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. He could almost feel her memories. The last time she was here, she was seriously contemplating her suicide in light of his trying to make tangible that which wasn't and would simply never be.

"Take your time, my dear. Come in when you are ready."

He walked passed her, making sure he didn't look back already berating himself for bringing her back. All he wanted was her in his music but he never thought the whole ordeal through. His home was not filled with happy memories and feelings of ease, for God's sake he'd almost killed them all – himself included, his soul was on its last hinges that night, he was more than ready to die every which way. But death never bloody came. No, he had to wait. He was still waiting but waiting seemed easier now. If only Christine would come in and allow him to try again.

He sat down at his organ. The thought to coax her in crossed his mind but he shook it free – not this time would he deceive one single sense.

He was lost in thought when he realised he was being watched. He swivelled abruptly and there, standing in the middle of the Louis-Philip Room, was Christine. Mouth no longer agape, the memories shut away and a determination in her eye which he found immensely gratifying. But the way she looked at him then was a curiously unclear emotion.

It made him uncomfortable and he swivelled back.

Coughing awkwardly to draw her out of the trance, he said simply,

"Act natural."

"Act natural?" She enquired, amused at the over-used, over-rated and impossibly difficult command.

"Yes." He answered over his shoulder, quill at the ready, notes ahead of him, the organ keys looking oh-so dashing at the tips of his ready and waiting fingers.

"You have brought me down here to 'act.' 'natural.'

"Actually I have brought you down here to be in my presence. Near me – so that I can be near you." Then more quietly, he added, "You inspire me. Do you not know this already?"

"Oh I know it." She told him. He could hear the smile in her voice. So lovely – wonderfully freeing. She had the air of a woman in power emanating from her in contrast with the previous feeling of unease.

"I'll walk around – I'll be near." She continued, "Call me back if you have need."

And so it went. It felt like hours and yet he was sure he was writing a master-piece. Christine said nothing to him throughout the duration of the exercise and yet little knocks and finger-taps here and there, an exclamation only once and the occasional clink of something dropping to the floor or being replaced assured him of her presence.

After a time though, Erik put down the quill and became aware of a deathly silence.

"My lo – Christine?"

No answer. His heart began to race. Had she worked out how to escape? Had she run from him? Had the whimsical smile only meant that she had found the way out prior to his orchestration already?

He got up in a mild panic and tried to stay calm as he walked into the various rooms that webbed out from the Louis Philip room.

But there was no trace of her, save for one door, slightly ajar. He would have missed it were he not looking so fervently.

He pushed it lightly, opening it with a feeling of dread beginning to seep into his brittle bones.

He entered the darkness where a blueish light cast Christine in a glow, becoming the ghost he believed _he,_ and not she, was.

"Christine?"

But she didn't say anything. She was as silent as the graves he'd dreamed about, mouth in a stoic and unrelentingly grim line across her face but her eyes were as bright as the sun. Erik sensed great emotional turmoil – overwhelmingly so as he approached her.

She was looking at his torture chamber. The singular tree that stood in the corner of a mirrored room – the hangman's noose still swaying meekly in the presence of a breeze that came from Gods knew where now. The torture chamber, Erik had ensured, had been dismantled mere moments after Christine's departure.

He was sure and yet as she stared, he became less and less certain.

He drew up beside her and turned his terrified eyes to the room. But it was empty. It was even gathering a bit of dust.

"Christine, are you quite alright, my dear?" He asked, trying his luck with a bit of bemusement.

But this seemed to touch a nerve and she turned to him in such a flurry, Erik was quite robbed of words. Christine's face was ashen and haunting in its moment of freight.

"I'd forgotten about this…" she muttered, barely looking at him.

Erik felt himself grow cold,  
"If I could ask you to forget again, then, please. How did you get in here?"

"The door was open."

"It most certainly was not."

"Unlocked then. Closed doors are always so tempting. You know that better than anyone."

Perhaps he had forgotten to lock the door when last he went in. A very long time ago, indeed.

"Curiosity," she continued, almost as if she were dreaming, "The Louis Philip brought back many memories. Not all of them bad. Some of them quite pleasant. The threshold to your house reminded me of the first time you brought me here.

"Now I'm here, staring at this merciless room – and I remember….I remember everything as if it were yesterday. Your magnificent cruelty."

Erik felt himself begin to crumble in on himself. Shying away from the morbidity of this memory – of this black stain on a past that was not all his.

"And…"

He looked up to find a peculiar sort of hope that shone out like a beacon from her core. The dream was ending. He gazed steadily at her, weary of whatever was to come next, calculating his next response accordingly.

"Your immense redemption and kindness."

"My kindness…" he repeated flatly, all measure of calculous fading into oblivion.

"Yes. It is a kindness, believe it or not, to allow those you wish to die go free with what you desire most in the world. To put it bluntly."

He stared at her.

"You don't hate…me….then."

"Hate you. No…I feel like you're finally becoming…" she groped for words in the dim twilight but her words failed her, leaving her hands to dance, somewhat, before his eyes in an effort to express her meaning.

He thought on it for a moment before stepping away, leaving the door-way open for her to leave through. When she had stepped out, he turned back to his mirrored horror and contemplated for a final moment before following her, closing it, finding the key, locking it and proceeding to throw the damned, little thing into the lake.

He would never, _ever_ lay eyes upon that shameful piece of work again.

When he had returned from his endeavour, he found her pouring over his newly created work. When she looked up at him; him in a sudden freeze, terrified of how the music may now sound to the one person it was for, she let out a quiet, little sigh.

"This will be perfect. I'll sing the words, yes? And then you will teach me, as you promised, to avoid the anxiety of stage fright preceding the performance."

"I can't teach you that, but I can advise ways in which to make it easier…" he answered her guardedly, eying the notes in her arms. She held them so carefully, if holding a butterfly, too vigorous a movement and the wings would break; the poor thing would die.

"So be it. Advise me."

"Yes…" he barely whispered, moving forward, "Yes, but first –"

He took a seat, pealing the sheets of music from her hands, "We sing…we sing again. You and I."

 **OoOOOoOoOoooOO**

Nadir knew full well where Christine and 'The Ghost' had gone. But he was uneasy all the same. Always uneasy.

But, Christine was a grown woman and he no longer had to watch over her like she was a child. Instead, he sat in a chair in the corner of Angier's office watching Philip pace up and down in mild annoyance whilst Angier tried to reason with Carlotta, having managed to move the mania away from the rehearsal arrangements and into his office – sufficiently sound proof when everyone was singing at their loudest and he had the door shut.

"Signora, you must understand me," Angier was saying, keeping his voice calm and cool with an admirable effort, "Your presence is of the utmost importance but it is now a matter of safety!"

"Safety?" Carlotta fired back, "Safety or vanity? I refuse to believe you are still being haunted!"

Angier glanced miserably at Nadir who gave a dismissive shrug.

"I will leave, Signor! I tell you, I will. I will not be treated like your dog poop on the floor of the park next door! No more, I am better and deserve better! Signora Daae may have the stage!"

"But – "

"But what, Signor?" Carlotta dared to take a step towards him but much to the amazement of Nadir, Angier held his ground as the stout, little woman drew level with him, eyes of fire and fists ready to bury themselves in the folds of his chest, "How will you appease me?"

"I will not stop you from leaving, Signora, if you believe that is for the best. But let me assure you, your name was the first to headline on this event. Within two weeks, the event was sold out so we had extended it. Only then did Mademoiselle Daae get in contact with us. People still flock to see you, Signora. Madam Daae was a rather extravagant addition."

"I beg your pardon?" Philip suddenly surged forward much to Angier's dismay, igniting Carlotta's mollified fury once more, "Christine was not simply an addition to this farce of a showcase! She is an exemplary performer! She is Christine Daae, wife to my brother, le Viscomte De Chagny, daughter of Gustav Daae, the greatest violinist in Sweden. She had risen from the depths of hell to bless the word with her talents and you're here, telling this infuriating woman that Christine is a mere second place. And that you're surreptitiously bowing to the whims of instruction by some unseen force?"

Angier looked quite bewildered. Nadir had to admit it to himself – this was rather a brash outburst.

"Unseen force…Monsieur?" Angier pried unsteadily, leaving Carlotta to fume at the new De Chagny's rival, "I don't know what you mean…"

"This Ghost of yours, of course. Monsieur Kahn has told me all about it, now tell me. Is this teacher, the Ghost we so desperately fear? If so, then I shall put an end to it right away."

Angier side stepped and gave a hard stare at Nadir, looking for answers. Again, Nadir gave a shrug. Apologetic and resigned. Let bygones be bygones and all.  
If Philip De Chagny knew then so be it.

Angier, perplexed turned back to De Chagny, certainly unimpressed with having to take on the two (De Chagny and Carlotta) tour de forces alone.

"I assure you, Monsieur, we have nothing to worry about – yet."

Nadir let out a short, sharp, bark of laughter.

"No, we are long past that point. Christine Daae," he said at last, rising from his seat, feeling the burden rise with him, "is indeed with Erik."

Philip seemed to float over to the side of Carlotta, side by side, standing in a quietly growing alliance.

"How do we rescue her?" he asked coldly.

"She doesn't need to be rescued." Nadir told him casually, feeling Angier's unease creep up on him as the Manager took his place by Nadir's side.

"You see, Monsieur, nothing to worry about. Who better to trust than the ghost's friend?"

"The Persian?" Carlotta asked pointedly, her fat, index finger directed at him, "You?"

Carlotta had recognised Nadir not long after her entrance into the main theatre.

"Yes, Signora." Nadir made face at the accusing finger, he didn't much like Carlotta even if her voice was quite lovely, "I've a long history with 'the Ghost', as you know him. Before you ask, no. I'll tell you nothing."

Carlotta gasped with an almost animated comedy,

"Then you are just as much to blame as the rest of them!"

Nadir felt his shoulders sag even further,

"I dare say you are right, there, Signora. If not anywhere else. I've made a few mistakes in attempt to rectify a seemingly uncontrollable situation."

"This situation is in our control, however." Philip said sternly, stepping ahead of Carlotta, signifying the end of her pointless finger-pointing, "We know what this man looks like, _you_ know where he lives and we all know Christine past or present and at least two of you are familiar with the proceedings of the last time this madness occurred. We have control."

"What do you plan on doing?" Nadir enquired softly, careful not to sound too sarcastic or too careless.

"I plan on using you."

Nadir blinked and glanced back at Angier who was quick to answer in his stead,

"Use him after the performance, I beg of you, Monsieur. It is selfish, I'm well-aware but there's a lot of money going into this variety performance and if all goes well then the world is my oyster. Please, let this pass for at least 3 more days only and then decide on what is to be done."

"Christine could be in more danger than before and you wish to keep that way because it is _convenient_ for you?" Philip spat.

Angier shrank even further behind Nadir. The man was an entirely unstable a companion. He could stand up to Carlotta but not to this man. Somewhat understandable but the manner in which his resolve crumbled before him had Nadir on the verge of slapping him.

Carlotta suddenly sided with Angier, the tables turning for a two against one and Nadir as the stand alone who rooted for an entirely different outcome.  
Philip De Chagny may as well have been 10 men instead of one with his formidable resolve in comparison to Angier's.

"It is best for us all, I think, if we let this thing pass. As long as I am a headline act and this opportunity is not lost." Carlotta dared to give Angier an impish smile, making the man raise his eyebrows in surprise.

"Outragious! How dare you!" Philip erupted, starting forward with an aggression Nadir had not anticipated and therefore instinctively stepped out of the way of, "How dare you presume to take a showcase of unknowns more seriously than Mademoiselle Daae's! Not only that, she's a human being and no matter the circumstance, 'people' come first, you immoral fools!"

"Here, here." Nadir heard himself say before frowning at his impervious lack of thought.

Philip went quiet, as did they all, turning to look at Nadir – two of them confused and Philip, vaguely triumphant. Nadir was suddenly very much aware that his part in this mess was to be a chess pawn. Have Nadir, and the game is yours.

But Philip's words had struck a chord. People come first no matter the circumstance. As twisted and misplaced as his self-righteousness may have been, by not allowing these people to interfere with the proceedings of Christine Daae and Erik up until the night of the performance – a mere two nights away – he was putting two people first.

He was putting Erik first.  
For once. Christine was a part of the package. Nothing to be done about it.

"I will no longer have any part in this. Do what you will but Christine Daae and the Phantom are now their own responsibility."

Nadir made to leave, cursing the ground they all walked on for making his life so difficult. He had hoped that the Comte De Chagny would have been a little more understanding but he was wrong. He knew why of course.

Out of the door and into the corridor heading out towards the light, the air fresh and cool – washing away the beast of a shadow that followed him within the halls of the Opera House.

His arm was suddenly yanked back and the light faded from his vision, escape was delayed and he feared all the words that would come out of Philip De Chagny's mouth as he whirled him around to look him in the eye.

"I need your help, Monsieur Kahn, you have to understand. I can't let this thing happen to her again! My brother would be rolling in his grave!"

"We've had this conversation before, Comte, surely you remember. He sent her back here, evidently to decide where her feelings lay. Let her find out!"

"But now that I've experienced his manipulative skill –"

"How have you experienced it?"

"To simply whisk her away without protest and to be alone with her despite the past? Come now, Nadir…"

Philip had a point. Still, he could not let his mind falter – Erik came first. He trusted himself with the consequences.

"I understand your concern but –"

"My God, man, must I spell it out for you? I love her! I wish I did not – it's terribly inconvenient and quite against all the laws of society but here I am and I'm losing to a masked and very dangerous man known only as the Phantom of the Opera to the whole of Paris save for four now five people! Two of whom, I've discovered to be useless and selfish!"

Nadir raised his hands in act of calm,

"Angier is not a selfish man, he recognises the danger but each person here has their own life to lead. If I made it clear to him that this was a worry, I assure you he would have cancelled everything. He is a good man, if not a little misguided. Might I also add that we failed to inform Carlotta of Ms Daae's being a widow?"

"A worry?" Philp started then flapped his hands, forgoing that particular argument, "I don't care, Monsieur. You're missing my point!"

"I got your point – very finely tailored. Sharp as a pin. But you're missing _my_ point, Monsieur. Christine is not a child anymore. The late and young Viscomte De Chagny is the only one who appeared to have realised that, and to have suggested she go to find herself."

Philip let go of Nadir's arm, a wave of resignation flattened his stoic feature. He looked quite…

Nadir frowned, struggling to find a thought.

He looked older.

"What am I to do then?"

"Wait with me and try not to let your love get in the way."

* * *

 **A/N Please review, my dearests. I like reviews as all writers do.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Delays. I'm crap at timing. When was the last update anyway? 'Cause I dunno. Anyway.**

* * *

"Straighten up. You're slouching. Do you normally slouch? Stop slouching."

"I'm not slouching."

"Christine."

"Erik."

They looked at each other in mutual fury. They'd been at it for far too long and Christine was getting irritable. Her voice was growing tired and Erik was growing more and more demanding. As a result she was beginning to retaliate against his tirade of musical perfection.

"Christine." He said again, far more sternly and with eyes of steal that, on any other occasion, would have made her shudder but there was no one here for him to threaten, "Stop slouching."

She felt the last of her control slip away – kill her or nay, she would not stand any longer. He had pushed her quite enough.

"Monsieur. I'm not too far off from deciding death to be a better option than arguing with you - you haven't let me breathe in four hours! You do realise the gala is in two days. I know the words, I know the score. You haven't advised me on anything!" She turned to him, throwing her arms up in an exhausted rage, "What are you doing?"

Erik hadn't moved, she thought he'd have cowered away like he used too, he had never liked to upset her and that was before she felt she could rise up and argue her point. And now at last, when she felt she held some meaningful power, he didn't flinch and simply stared at her – not even bewildered. Bemused?

"I'm looking. I'm advising. You must emanate confidence for any audience – great or small – to believe in you. Now, not only is it good for breathing but opening up your chest allows you to release that feminine power in you – the one you appear to have discovered over the course of the past few years. But you're slouching."

"I'll kill you."

He laughed, dragging his eyes from her down to his lithe fingers that stroked the keys of the organ ever so gently. His laugh was music in and of itself. She had never heard him laugh before. All laughter was music when set free after years of oppression. She found herself wondering how many times the Phantom had laughed in genuine manner, if he had ever truly laughed at all.

"I'd like to see you try, Madam."

Christine straightened her shoulders, reluctant to realise she had just proven his point. When he looked back up at her, he seemed to reach a new conclusion.

"We'll stop singing – and as you so aptly put it, I have not let you breathe. So why not breathe now, hmm?"

He rose in a most agile manner from his seat at his organ, his tailcoat falling gracefully behind him and hugging his thin frame. Adjusting his mask, he approached her,

"You've let yourself slip into a practice that has you leaning into your notes. You hold them beautifully, that hasn't changed. But now you lean forward. Which," he told her matter-of-factly, "Is not entirely wrong; emotion has us swaying every-which-way. But you don't sway back. You _must_ sway back."

"And you think this is in my breathing technique?"

"I can only assume. Try and find out, yes?"

He was very close to her, but even if she had not been aware, she would not have known him to be by her side. No warmth came from him. A strange jolt to the memory came with him being so near. He had never been a 'warm body'. Something that was quite beyond understanding.

"Here, if you would allow me?"

Christine looked down at his hand hovering just above her abdomen. She had no doubt that his other hand was hovering just above her lower-back, like a brace.

She nodded only once and tried to withhold the shiver that came with the iciness of his fingers seeping through the fabric of her dress.

"Breathe in through your nose for 4 and out for 10 – and 1…2….3…4…."

She took a deep breath and naturally tried to stop her stomach from pressing into his hands.

"Lower your shoulders." He added and she adjusted accordingly, "and 1…2…3…4…5….6….7….8….9…10. Mind those shoulders, Christine."

She held her tongue.

"In for four and out for twenty. And 1….2…."

Christine felt all the negative emotions slide away with each breath in and out, her mind cleared. She learned to control her breathing all over again. The calm that came with concentrating on the simple act of expanding the lungs was something she had missed.

When she finished her last exercise of in for 4 and out for 30 and opened her eyes, she realised that Erik was no longer holding her waist. Instead he was standing an arms-length away and watching her curiously.

"You look far lovelier when you're not worried."

In spite of herself, a small smile escaped and all was brand-new.

"Shall we try one last time, I think you'll come across a notable difference."

She nodded again and allowed him to draw her nearer to the organ, nearer to him.

He began to play and on the fourth bar, she allowed her voice to rise and soar. Her lungs, as Erik said they would, opened up and she felt a confidence in her abilities such as she had forgotten about.

And when she leaned into a note, she made sure she "swayed back". As a result, the following note was stronger and lighter on her larynx.

She let the song trail off, as….one might say….love so often does, allowing the music to simply fade into its surroundings as if it was always a part of it and not initiated by the hands of an, arguably, deranged organ player.

After a time, thoughts reaching their end, Erik dared to ask,

"What do you think?"

Christine redirected her dazed attention, quietly euphoric in the success of her recovered abilities, toward him,

"You're right."

"Yes…I tend to be. You sang beautifully. You look better."

"Thank you."

"Thank _you,_ my dear."

They looked at each other a long while. A stillness coming over them both, a passionate calm. In those moments, something began to brew. Erik cocked his head – thus Christine became aware that he too was acknowledging a peculiar change in the atmosphere, one that seemed to pull the very fine thread that had always hung loosely between them a little more taught.

He opened his mouth to say something but not before Christine beat him to it – refusing to allow the moment to be acknowledged any further.

"I think it best I go back. You _will_ take me back, won't you…?"

Erik closed his mouth, turning away from her to gather his music sheets, obviously unsettled.

"Yes. I suppose I should. But you will be back here tomorrow. Given today's improvements, I will teach you in no other environment."

"Do you intend to have the gala down here too?"

He rose fast and without warning, her breath going with the twirl of his coat as he wheeled away from and walked around the organ to place the stack of musical sheets safely inside one of the books on the shelf just behind it.

"Don't play games, Christine, you know full well I'm not that foolish."

"Well…I'm not so sure."

He gave her such a glare that Christine found herself immediately silenced and yet, still unafraid.

"Maybe I _should_ have the gala down here," he growled. "– just to live up to my apparent reput-"

"Oh, Erik!" Christine cried, pleading with whichever part of Erik would listen, "Where is your sense of humour? Surely you must understand the concept of a jest."

"My humour and yours seem to differ slightly. I feel that mine might be slightly more…macabre."

"You may very well be right but it wouldn't hurt to learn the humour of an average mortal."

"An average mortal? I'm a mortal! I may not be average, however, but neither are you. You might do well to learn my humour too, yes?"

"Very well. When you finally make a jest, I'll attempt to recognise it and laugh accordingly. Please may I return?"

Erik simply stared at her – cocking his head once more before moving past her. She got the idea that he didn't understand her quite as well as he had hoped. She had indeed become bolder in her dealings with him but she had also grown up and experienced the world in all its varying formats – things that made a person grow.

A world-weary woman (Or man) often forwent the privilege of having any kind of childish innocence.

He rowed her across the lake in silence and made no move to help her when he didn't adjust the little boat in time for it to port gently upon the banks of the cellars that would lead up to the opera-house. She tumbled forward, having not seen it in the dark.

Climbing out of the boat, he eventually did offer her his hand and began to laugh. A childish, carefree laugh that Christine had never heard before.

"You see? I indeed have humour and it is you who have now been on the receiving end!"

She took his hand in bewilderment and allowed him to help her steady herself on the ground.

"I – yes…but…what if I fell out of the boat? Would that still be so funny?"

"Perhaps mores so but I dare not attempt that for I can see quite well in the dark without the water but add the murkiness of the lake to the madness and I'm not too sure we'd ever see each other again."

Turning back to her, he became quite serious,

"My soul would break alongside my heart and the Persian and the Comte would not even have to hunt me down."

Christine didn't know what to say, or to do so she shrugged,

"At what point do I laugh?"

Erik turned away from her, obviously put-out by her less than pleasing response to his dramatism.

"You missed it." He told her flatly, leading her up through the cellars. She counted them as she went, each layer seemingly just as formidable as the last.

She stared at his back for a time, trying to decide when and if there was a good time to ask how exactly he had planned out his revenge.

"Erik?" She asked nervously, "I don't meant to be offensive, but –"

"Then don't be. Simply speak wisely."

She nodded though he couldn't see her but she decided she would ask anyway for seeing how the opera house was built in a more controlled manner was quite interesting. It was elevated above water – practically on stilts.

"How did you intend to incinerate up the Opera House?"

His head jerked back over his shoulder but not enough to look at her. It caught him off guard that was for certain but she assumed that her voice managed to convey a certain amount of quizzical interest so as not to offend him and she secretly congratulated herself on her careful manner.

"The bottom cellar, my dear. Cellar 5. If you're going to burn something to the ground, burn the legs first. It would take them years to rebuild if they rebuilt at all. It would be magnificently catastrophic."

"With what?"

"Gun powder, my dear. From the Civil War. You weren't around then, I don't believe, but this place was used as one of many army forts and as a result had much and more gunpowder to be stored in its cellars. The war ended, the people left, the gun powder stayed. Dormant for many years until I met you and then once again it had a purpose…and then once again, it was left to drown."

"I'm glad of it." Christine commented softly.

He turned back to her abruptly, just under the light of a lamp, having his golden eyes shine bright. There was a peculiar kindness in them, a genuine feeling that was platonic in its origins – one that Christine could look back at him in earnest for.

"As am I." he answered.

Looking at him as he looked back at her, on a mutual ground where the conflicting of suppressed emotion was nowhere to be found – she found him to be…bearable. A glimmer of an amiable companion with whom she could relate and not feel uncomfortable with.

With that feeling came the rest, all the same old-same old's roaring back in but followed quietly by the brewing broth she had shut down not too many moments ago. That stillness that had her feet plant themselves firmly on the ground.

It was Erik who turned away this time and continued up in silence. Christine, however, had seen how his eyes had suddenly widened as if he was suddenly frightened.

The rest of the climb was silence.

Once at the old dressing room mirror, he opened it and allowed Christine to step through, guiding her over the step with a gloved hand she had allowed herself to take. It wasn't necessary.

"I will see you later, then, my dear." He told her without giving her much choice, closing the mirror-door on her.

With his departure, the stillness slipped away too.

 **OoOOOOOoOo**

"Where is she? It's late." Philip was saying, taking another sip of his whiskey while Nadir sat and drew as best he could on a piece of paper near the fire.  
They were in the hotel guest lounge where, as was said, a warm fire crackled and popped, the Comte De Chagny's whiskey glass placed periodically upon the mantel piece next to a clock.

Nadir had only taken up drawing in the last few months. He wasn't good but he found that it soothed him. Especially in times such as these where the normally calm Comte Philip De Chagny was pacing up and down.

Glancing at the clock, it did strike Nadir that it was indeed getting rather late but he dared not to let that get to him. If they both began to worry, it would lead to them both pacing, pacing, pacing to and through the volts of the Opera House and _that_ would not do.

"Calm down, Monsieur." Nadir told him without looking up from his work, "She'll come back when she's ready. No sooner, no later."

"This isn't normal, Monsieur Khan," he told Nadir with a sudden sigh, plopping himself down in a chair near Nadir's own, "I don't like things being out of the norm. It appears it would make me nervous."

Nadir chuckled.  
"Not too long ago, you were a man that lead the way for change and discomfort."

"Yes well," the Comte shrugged amiably, "It would appear I'm growing older. My brother –"

Nadir shook his head vigorously -  
"Would have been in far worse a state than you are now, Monsieur. You are right, though; it is curiously late but as you said, we are not amidst the norm now. So, patience is a must."

"We must have a curfew." The Comte said determinedly, asserting himself in accordance with his new found resolve and amusing Nadir to no end, "If she is not back within the next 20 minutes to half an hour, we will go looking for her."

Nadir agreed to ease the man's mind but he had no intention of leaving. Nothing would happen to her. It would be the Comte who he would need to worry about were they to follow through with Philip's heroic (if not misguided) plan of action.

But in the end, there was no need for Christine dragged herself to the hearth in half a daze not long after midnight.

Philip all but leapt to his feet, taking her face in his hands and looking her over.  
"Where have you been? You've had me worried sick!"

"Yes indeed," Nadir slowly got up himself, feeling the joints in his knees crack as he did so, "Young Comte De Changny has not been able to control his worry. I assured him you were perfectly safe."

Christine nodded at Nadir and gave a meek little smile to Philip.  
"I'm fine." She told him kindly, removing his hands from her face with gentle rejection, "I was practising my singing. You know full well the Showcase isn't far off."

"Yes but practising for so long so as to keep you well into the night surely isn't healthy!" The Comte protested, holding onto her hands, "My dear Christine, I have a duty now not only to you but to my brother. I owe it to him to ensure your safety and well-being. I'll have to put my foot down somewhere. I'm thinking here might be it."

"Oh please don't," Christine rolled her eyes and in turn caught Nadir's as she turned from De Chagny, moving past them both to collapse in a chair, "Carlotta's been giving enough of an earful."

Ah yes. Nadir remembered. That very day which seemed to have flashed before his very eyes, before Christine had stolen away with Erik, Carlotta had properly dug into her abilities as a performer and as a woman worthy of the successes she had finally managed to relate herself too.

"Ever since Elyssa, she's hated me. And it may seem petty but I well and truly don't understand why. It's the nature of the business!"

"Yes," Nadir agreed, "But Carlotta has a great many more years on you in experience and age. Experience that has landed her in countless right times in the right places. Something you will still have to do."

Christine blinked at him, processing what he had said. Wise but quite unexpected from a man who lacked any kind of musical experience. Except for Erik.

Which, in all fairness, was not at all a bad place to be.

"I suppose you're right." She muttered, eyes boring into the fire. A few moments passed where she gazed thoughtfully into the flames, Philip watching her with concern and Nadir watching them both with uncertainty – sure once again, that he should probably just leave but damn himself for having made the promise to ensure everyone's safety in the Godforsaken matter.

"Monsieur, I must ask to speak with you alone. I have a rather pressing matter to discuss with you."

Nadir inhaled and held his breath, reluctant to meet the Comte's eyes for he looked so hurt.

"Christine, if there's something the matter, I'd like to be able to be a part of it too. Perhaps I can help." He told her hopefully, daring to go to his knee and take her hand.

She spared him a kind smile but shook her head,  
"Not this time, Philip. It must be with Nadir alone."

Nadir stood silent, shrugging dismally as Philip rose and departed, giving him a sideways glance that warned Nadir of certain questioning.

Once gone, Christine sat up straight, gesturing for Nadir to take a seat opposite her. He did so with an unease that had him right on the edge of his seat.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I felt strange feeling such as I have never felt before, with anyone, with Erik."

Nadir sat back in surprise,  
"Mademoiselle?"

"Calm." She repeated thoughtfully, a crease in her brow indicating her thoughts.

"Calm?" Nadir raised his eyebrows in surprise. Every fibre of his being felt frayed and gnawed at by the incessant teeth of nerve that started whenever Erik was around and here, the epitome of all his nervousness was telling him she felt calm with the Opera Ghost.

She sighed. She suddenly seemed guilty. Her words did not come as quickly as her thoughts so Nadir was forced to sit patiently and wait.

"Nadir, I never loved Raoul. It breaks my heart to think that perhaps…he…knew that?"

Nadir nodded, reeling in his own thoughts. He shrugged, leaning forward again, giving her his full attention, bringing his fingers to a steeple while his elbows rested on his knees,

"Philip knew. Knows."

Her hand went to her mouth in horror.  
"He does?!"

Nadir didn't bother to answer. He was amused by her attempt to disappear into her chair. But his amusement slowly began to fade as he came to realise her distress was clearly not without foundation. She had begun to sob, her shoulders heaving steadily.

"I thought I hid it so well! And now he's dead and I barely ever told him how thankful and how sorry I was! I did love him! I did! Just…"

"For a short time." Nadir told her gently.

"That's not helpful!" she lashed out, making him jump, "You're supposed to be making me feel better! You're the only…the only…"

She trailed off. Her sobs overtaking her until at last there were no words and Nadir could only watch her fall apart in front of him, helpless.

"Shall I get the Comte, Madam?"

"N..n…no," a heavy breath before continuing her weeping.

Nadir, with no other plan of action, decided that perhaps he should talk. Just talk, talk about nothing and everything in great detail. He remembered it working on his wife – his beautiful wife who, after the first time he had started talking about nothing to calm her, had requested him on countless occasions to just talk. Sometimes, when he had walked in after a long day's work, she would look disgruntled and he would be slightly traumatised and she would say, "Talk, Nadir." He'd do so and it would end up being therapeutic for them both.

"I met my wife when I was still a lowly police officer in Persia. She was a jewellery seller on the streets of the market. You'd like the market, Christine. It's loud and it smells but it has beautiful things and beautiful things attract interesting people. Interesting people with interesting stories and word travels very quickly. So fast you can see the word travel through the crowd. You hear about five stories before stopping at your first seller."

He took note of the quieting of Christine's sobs and offered a reassuring smile.

"Obviously, word spread, of a beautiful jewellery seller not too far down the South end of the market. Naturally, us men – there were about…four of us – couldn't resist. I'll admit, I felt powerful as policeman. People feared me. Coming from nothing, I tell you, it is an interesting change of perspective. However, over time as my status changed, so did my enjoyment of the feeling….

Nadir took a breath,

"Moving on. We forced our way through the crowd, following this whisper to its origin. I found my wife there, selling simple things. Yes, Jewellery. But she also sold an odd assortment of children's toys and peculiar little trinkets that had us all quite enchanted. After the initial shock of her arrival, her beauty waned on others but her sales never faltered. It would seem the little tid-bits charmed everyone else just as much as they did me. But I kept going back not because of those things but because of her. Her beauty never faded."

Christine had stopped crying now, though tears still silently fell down her pale face, drained of colour, a bleeding heart wrought thick upon her sleeve. She watched him intently as he rolled on with his story. Filling in the finer points that soon became more for the benefit of himself than for her. He even filled in the time apart where, though he had known he had loved, they had yet to even establish a proper relationship and so had other relations with other women in the meantime. Some of whom made his heart skip three beats, some of whom did nothing.

"But with my wife," he murmured, "Once all was said and done and she and I had found our places in life, finally seeking one another out – or so I believed," he chuckled, "Although I have no doubt that I probably made her life too difficult to refuse me."

Christine smiled limply.  
"Did Erik take pointers from you then?"

Nadir shook his head, suddenly serious,  
"No, no. I have no idea where he got his ideas from. Mine were far less detailed. But she fell for me in the end! But once we found our places in life; I felt calm. It then occurred to me that all I had ever felt with her was calm."

Christine studied him, wiping a stay tear away from a drooping eyelid,

"Calm?"

"Yes…" Nadir gave her a thoughtful once over, "Love is not always heart-stops and gut wrenches – moments where you can't breathe and sleepless nights. Sometimes…sometimes you are still. The mind becomes less busy, the heart steadier. It is a solid feeling. A rare feeling. A feeling I have experienced with no one else. And, I might add, it's not always clear as to what it actually is."

When Nadir finally focused on Christine; she was smiling at him. Her eyes still glistened but the grief had gone.

"It is also not wrong to love passionately but swiftly. _You_ are not wrong, Mademoiselle but be grateful for the man you married which I know you are. It is not common to find men or women who overlook loving without being loved with such care."

"Erik was one of those men in the end."

Nadir went silent. Yes, yes he supposed Erick was.

* * *

 **So how's about a review.**


	9. Chapter 9

**So I realised I've been spelling 'Phillipe' as 'Philip'. Efff my life, guys. I've subsequently started spelling it the correct way. Just in case anyone notices a hiccup here or there. I went back and edited this chapter to do so. Please no hate if there are a few cases of spelling differences. On another note, it's not a very frequently updated story and perhaps not by best so thank you for sticking with it. It's been a crazy busy time in my life and I literally have zero time. But, here's the next chapter - we wade on.**

* * *

Nadir wondered back to his hotel, past the Comte who had in fact fallen asleep in a chair near the door of the room. Nadir had half the mind to wake him and send him to bed but he didn't want to be questioned just then. So he left him where he sat.

He strolled out into the night, dragging his feet down the road to his hotel. Upon entering the lobby, however, the bell-boy called his name and Nadir turned to find a note held shakily aloft.

The boy seemed uncertain, doing his best to hide his quivering need to get it out of his hands.

"A note, Monsieur. If you will."

Nadir gazed curiously at the boy before stepping forth to retrieve the note.

Turning from the him with a ginger smile, rolling his eyes and opening the note, he grimaced.

 _The park, Daroga! As quick as you can.  
I have news._

Erik had the mind to approach the boy directly instead of finding some magical way of having the note find itself in Nadir's room without opening the door. It must indeed have been urgent.  
Yet, Nadir couldn't find it in him to think on it too much. But, with a longing glance down the hall and harsh tear of the note, Nadir all but stormed back out of the lobby, casting away the pieces of paper carelessly without giving a second thought to the boy who would have to clean up the tiny shreds.

The park was as eerie as a cemetery in the darkness. The cool breeze was given a voice by the soft sway of the trees surrounding him. Nearby, the rippling of a pond could be heard.  
Nadir shivered but once.

"What the devil have you brought me out here for so late?" He asked the darkness with a seething annoyance.

"I felt…" came the hesitant reply to his demand, Erik's voice just above a whisper as it floated to Nadir from out the darkness to his left, "I felt calm in her presence. Being with her is as intoxicating as it has always been, Daroga but something has changed."

Nadir turned to look at the white mask now hovering before him, all the rest of the Phantom's body was clad in his customary black thus lending his appearance to the advantage of his ghostly name. He felt calm, too. Damn the word.

"I cannot say what but my heart did not beat as it had done before, my hands did not shake, my soul did not fall to its knees and yet I know my feelings have not changed towards her. What does it mean? I assume you would know."

Nadir tried to make out the actions of Erik's face but he couldn't see anything, only his voice lead the way to a guess.

"You shouldn't assume anything. I don't know what it means."

"Don't lie to me." Erik spat abruptly, startling Nadir as well as the silence surrounding them.

"What would you like me to tell you?"

"Is it another form of love?"

"I…maybe." Nadir stumbled, still shaken by Erik's aggressive retaliation against the lack of a stable answer. Nadir got the distinct sense that the ground he walked on was a little like egg shells. Erik was feeling vulnerable and out of control.

"She shared that moment with me, I _know_ she did," Erik started, beginning to pace before the Persian, "She looked at me for as long as I looked at her and on our way back this evening, we shared another. Another which…frightened me a little, I must admit. She's never quite had the same look on her face before."

"What look?" Nadir straightened, squinting into the darkness before giving up and opting to look at nothing.

"…I'm unsure how to say it…" Erik glanced uneasily at Nadir, raising his hand in the air as if to spin the word from the air itself, "Inquisitive, maybe?"

Nadir slumped.  
"She's always been like that."

"Yes," Erik answered cautiously, "But not with _me_. She has always been subdued, quick to look at anything but me when I stared for too long. But she held fast, Daroga."

"She's grown up. Perhaps she's more interested in the person you are, now than the Phantom you were _then_."

Erik made a strangled noise of dissatisfaction, beginning to walk hurriedly between the edges of the path where the grass met the gravel. Turning on the ball of his foot in a crunch of said gravel.  
"No matter. All I need to understand from you, Daroga, is what this feeling means."

"I – it – Allah, Erik be still!"

Erik's fervent pacing had his footsteps surrounding Nadir, carried by the wind, the rustle of the grass and the bushes making Nadir feel like there were thousands more present than just the two of them.

Erik heeded his outburst and stopped abruptly.

"It means you love the right person." Nadir said flatly, relieved to find that with Erik's halt came the quiet of the night once again.

"I'm well aware of that, Daroga."

Nadir thought a moment but his judgement and assertiveness towards the subject was beginning to flounder under the weight of exhaustion. Throwing his hands up, he all but yelled,

"What do you want me to say?! What is it that you wish to hear?! Tell me and I shall repeat it for you!"

"Does Christine. Feel. The same way." Erik's response was of a cool tone, unbothered by Nadir's irritation, "You have spoken to her, yes? I can only assume as you were not there when I came to your door and I do not know you to wonder the streets of Paris alone at night."

Nadir's breath caught, giving away the answer.

"You have then." Erik answered himself easily, "And?"

Nadir began to walk,

"I am neck deep in a situation I had only intended to feel the waters for."

But Nadir was stopped quite suddenly by the sound of Erik laughing, alive.

"You're fool if you believe you were ever out of these muddy waters, my friend."

Nadir turned back with a frown, stunned by the sound,

"Maybe so. But I will not sink any deeper."

"Nadir."

Again, Nadir turned slowly, struck by the lack of laughter but the presence of hope and life, a strange sense Nadir found difficult to comprehend but couldn't justify sweeping under the proverbial carpet.

"She spoke uncertainly." He told Erik slowly, never daring to turn back fully, "She didn't ask me directly what the feeling was. I only know that she seems to recognise the concept. It came of the story I told her about my wife and I."

"Oh?"

"I'm not going to tell you, now, Erik. But I'm not certain where she stands, though one thing is certain; she never loved the Viscomte the way we all believed she did. The way _she_ believed she did."

Erik's eyes lit up, as much already glowing eyes could, mildly repulsing Nadir,  
"She didn't love him?"

"Don't." Nadir held up his hand, ending Erik's train of thought, "She did. Just as a lover. She had nowhere else to go, thanks to you."

Erik's assertiveness subsided a little, straightening, he dropped his gaze,

"And the Comte?"

"No. But he cares for her somewhat."

"Always the De Chagny's."

"Erik."

"The man is in no danger, if that is what you are worried about."

"I worry a lot."

Silence. Long and drawn out. Then, hardly audible against the noise of the breeze, Erik's sigh could have been mistaken for the talk of the wind,  
"May I pursue?"

When Nadir did not answer, Erik asked again,

"May I pursue? Daroga. Please."

With not much else to lose at that point, Nadir said with a voice that he had not used since the days of his child,

"You will do so at your own peril."

But it seemed he had lost the knack to instil fear. Erik was gone. Swiftly and suddenly without having given any form of recognition unto Nadir's words.

"ERIK!" Nadir dared to call into the darkness, "THINK BEFORE YOU ACT…you damned, _damned fool, Kahn!"_

 **oOoOOOoO**

Erik was running. How often did he run? He was amazed but he was spurred on by this new, pure and unadulterated hope that was of a genuine nature.

He bolted down the streets of Paris, past the opera house and to Christine's hotel. He stopped just short of the door, opting to peer through the window where the light of the fire still shone through. He had heard Nadir's words follow him out of the park but he was made of more spontaneous stuff. He only lived once and yet he had never truly lived at all!

Christine was still there though she slept slumped on the couch, her feet drawn up beneath her and her thumb dangerously close to being in her mouth.

"A child still in sleep if not in your waking hours, my dearest," he whispered.

She stirred and woke as if having sensed his presence. She looked confused, as if baffled by finding herself on the couch and not on the bed. Her bare feet felt tentatively for the ground before she stood up carefully, her body swaying slightly. Turning to stare blankly into the fire for a few moments, Christine did literally nothing with her time, no thoughts appeared to be in her head, not even a memory, simply hypnotized by the light of the fire.

Erik rose a hand, intending to tap upon the window but he stopped just short, his spontaneous spark getting bested by Nadir's shrewd warning.

"At my own peril." He repeated to himself, "So be it."

He walked away, put out by the manner in which he had given up. 3 years ago he would have tapped. He would have known her sleeping habits by then! He would know everything. He would have heard the conversation.

But he didn't. In a moment of epiphany, Erik congratulated himself on making progress. A peculiar progress he couldn't explain.  
It most certainly wasn't like him.

He looked up, daring to steal a last glance at his muse before returning to the opera house where he would be awake for the rest of the night trying to determine what exactly was happening.

That was until he peered up from his reverie and found her staring back at him with an unreadable expression. Caught, shocked by being so, Erik could do nothing but stare back.

Hesitantly, almost childishly, she waved. Unsure, perhaps, if he were even there at all. Erik wondered, for a moment, if perhaps he could pass himself off as a ghost once more – claim it as a dream later that morning but the longer he stood staring back, transfixed, the more she woke – the more unlikely his claim would grow.

So he waited. At last she moved, her eyes regaining their lucidity. She almost glided over to the window, the warmth of the fire creating an equally as warm glow about her person, an ethereal shimmer being left in her wake.

She opened the window and Erik instantly felt the warm air from inside blow into his face, making him close his eyes against its comfort for a mere moment.

"How long have you been out there?" She asked him quietly, seemingly unperturbed by his appearance as was most certainly not the case 3 years ago.

"Long enough to see you wake from sleep. Not long." He shifted awkwardly, he felt like a forbidden lover, Romeo at the window of Juliet, "Do you know you sleep like a child?"

"I know that I fall asleep in the position I find myself most comfortable in."

"So you don't fall asleep like that all the time then?"

"I don't think so. I had to adapt to the layout of the couch."

"I see. You looked far more comfortable than I believe anyone else could ever hope to be on that dreadful thing. It looks like it would cause the sitter much grief."

"You've never sat, let alone slept, on it."

"True though I tend to be right, you may have noticed."

"Erik."

"Christine."

"What are you doing here?"

Erik stilled his gaping, twitching jaw, unsure as to how to respond.

"In truth, my dear, I can't answer that."

She cocked her head,

"Why's that?"

Erik stalled once again.

"It is an improper answer. I strive to preserve you dignity and my own."

He had intended to bid her farewell but she had rested her elbow on the window sill, gazing out into the streets with interest, expecting, no doubt, to hear him say more.

"Have you been sleeping well?"

She huffed,  
"Why are my sleeping habits of such great concern to you this evening?"

"I don't have much else to say," he quipped, earning him an unimpressed eyebrow, "I initially came to wake you as I have unintentionally done. Then I discovered I quite enjoy watching you sleep. It's intriguing hence my questioning. I had intended to leave before you woke but then I found myself more intrigued by the manner in which you chose to wake up. Were you aware that you were gazing at the fire for many, many minutes before your discovery of me?"

She frowned, trying to recall but alas. Erik allowed a knowing smile.  
"I didn't think so. I do believe that if I had left at the moment you turned to see me, it would have been only in your dreams."

"I admit, I wasn't certain if you were real yet here you are. Why didn't you go?"

"I couldn't."

She stared at him and he at her and once again, the moment arose. Christine retreated from it again too, straightening and causing Erik a stab of disappointment.

"Good night, Monsieur Ange."

"Bon Nuit, Madam." He bowed deeply, staying down long after the window had closed and he was sure she had left the room.

 **OoOoOoOOoooOOO**

Nadir walked into the Opera House early that morning to find Monsieur Angier pouring over a stack of papers in the front of the stage. It appeared that he preferred the auditorium as an office more than he did his actual office. A very fine preference, Nadir thought, to care enough about the goings-on of the Opera to want to work in its heart.

The only thing that really drove the man back was his whiskey.

"Good morning, Benoit Angier!" Nadir greeted jovially, hoping to bring some life into his own body by pretending he had slept soundly. He hadn't. Restless and awake all night. Or all through what was left of it.

Angier looked up,

"Ah, Nadir! My good man, I think this Gala of ours might just be as spectacular as I had dreamed it to be."

"This is good news, my friend." Nadir smiled warmly, "But what of Carlotta?"

"Oh…yes." Angier's contented exterior wilted as a frown settled upon his brow. Returning to his papers, he read a line or two before looking back at Nadir, "I haven't managed to find a way to cross that bridge yet. Maybe," he jested nervously, "I should just leave it to our mutual acquaintance."

"You shouldn't joke about such things, Monsieur, it will not end well. Perhaps Mademoiselle Daae herself and the Diva should come to an agreement on their own." Nadir suggested, issuing a hand gesture with his pathetic proposal. He knew full well how fickle an idea it was.

Benoit stared blankly at Nadir for a time before responding,  
"Carlotta will skin the girl alive."

Nadir sighed, exasperated and exhausted,  
"So be it."

"So be it?! Good God, man, imagine the implications! Moments ago this whole thing was going to be a wondrous occasion and now, once more, it appears it will be a disaster."

"Don't be so put-out, Monsieur," Nadir assured, "I'm sure all will be-"

"Monsieur ANGIER?!" A terrible shriek of a voice had both men turn in shock and horror towards the door through which Carlotta flew through, "Have you come up with an alternative?"

"I…I…not…perhaps….." He sighed, dropping his shoulders, "No. Not a damned clue have I over what is to be done."

Carlotta stared at him incredulously. _Nadir_ stared incredulously at him. About them, all kinds of little head and ears poked out from the wings and the doors to listen.

"Signora," Angier readied himself, bringing himself to his highest height, albeit not very high at all, and looked Carlotta in the eye, "I cannot shift Mademoiselle Daae to the side – the Viscomte is dead. It is unfortunate that all of this had happened in this, our most festive, month, but it is imperative that all is laid to rest for all our sakes. It was her husband's dying wish that she be here so I must ask you, in the most straight forward way that I can without offense, Signora, you must at least try to understand."

He wrung his hands uncertainly as the diva continued to scrutinise him in silence.

"The Viscomte is dead…" she repeated carefully earning a sullen nod from Angier, "Why was I not informed prior to my demotion?"

"Signora!" Angier hastened to reassure but Nadir noticed a shift in the diva's demeanour, a curious gentleness that made her far more alluring, "Not a demotion for there will always be a place for you here! Just…not…as…"

"This is not what I asked, Monsieur Angier. Demotion or not, my place is no longer valid. I am asking why I was not told of Christine Daae's woe?"

"We didn't think it would matter, Signora." He answered, barely a whisper.

Carlotta's face didn't change though her voice lowered and Nadir detected a bit of hurt in her strong voice – not often heard in her, perhaps even _never_ heard.

"Do you think me so heartless, Monsieur? To not understand the pain of loss. I lost my Piangi to this Opera Ghost! I have every right to be angry at him and his ties to this Opera House!" She began to sniffle, her cold, hard exterior beginning to break down, "I know what it is too lose a little light in your life. Life is so short and most of it so dim anyway that when a light goes out, it is like standing in a candlelit room."

She turned away, her shoulders lurching in small intervals while everyone gazed on, more than a little stunned.

"Signora, I –" Monsieur Angier took a step forward but was halted by a hand across his chest.

"Shshsh, Monsieur." Nadir told the manager quietly.

Not too many minutes later, Christine walked in with Phillipe closely by her side, her eyes were heavily lidded. She came in cautiously as if walking over glass, perhaps having sensed the fragility of the atmosphere, perhaps realising that silence was not associated with the opera house during the day.  
When her eyes fell upon Carlotta and her tears, Christine didn't shrink away. She flew from the Comte's side and to Carlotta's without hesitation, all woes forgotten.

"Oh my Goodness, Signora, what has happened?" She enquired with concern, bracing the larger woman's for-arms, glancing over Carlotta's shoulder at the two perplexed men.

She held Carlotta while she cried and cried in front of the entirety of the ensemble as they gathered on the stage, in front of the workers who had come to clean the auditorium, the musicians who carefully filtered in. Everyone was careful and silent for Carlotta was crying and the world had to stand still for a moment for…Carlotta was _crying._

"What happened?" Philip whispered to Nadir after having snuck past the two women. Nadir shook his head.

"We told her the Viscomte was dead…"

"You what?"

Nadir glanced at the Comte and shrugged. The Comte, with naught else to do, stood just as the rest of them.

At long last, Carlotta sniffled away the last of the crippling sobs and wiped away her last few tears and the dribble that had begun to seep out of her nose. She looked up at Christine with such tenderness that Nadir could hardly believe it was the same person who had been a part of the enormous argument they had had in the manager's office not too long ago.

"Mademoiselle," she started, still breathing sharply, "When my Piangi was taken from me, my grief was eternal. Nothing could make me sing the way he could. He was my love, the soul to my voice. I have not yet recovered. I never will. My voice will never be the same without him – now it is simply how it was before him. I am sorry about your Viscomte, I am sorry I did not know and your road is so very long now, so very long. But you may have this part, of course. I will stand down for your mourning, if song is what will give you peace."

Nadir watched Christine carefully. The soprano was quiet for a long time, gazing at the Diva with, what? Nadir couldn't place the expression though it struck deep. That much was clear. Christine's little heart was still as dear as it was 3 years ago.

Suddenly, she threw her arms around Carlotta, burying her face into her shoulder and did not move. Carlotta was ready for she opened her arms as if expecting the embrace and wrapped her arms around Christine like a mother held her child. A tight hold, a reassuring hold as Carlotta gently stroked Christine's unruly curls,

"Alright." Carlotta muttered, "It is alright. All is well, now."

Nadir felt a horrible guilt well up inside of him – he had not given Carlotta the time of day. He was wrong to think that the women making peace was impossible. He had underestimated the greatness of mutual understanding. Sparing a glance at the Comte, he was not pleased. The Comte looked bitter, if not a little jealous. He held his tongue. Now was not the time to reprimand the Comte for begrudging Christine her outlet of grief in the arms of one Carlotta. Surprising though it was, it was a fact that was over-looked that in times of grief, a mutual grievance or at the very least, a mother/father figure, was needed.

Here, Carlotta rose to the occasion and everyone had the decency to be quiet so, Nadir would be quiet too.

* * *

 **Please leave a review. And please, refrain from correcting any 'she loves him' 'he loves her' 'this sucks' 'this doesn't' etc. I don't care, it's my story.  
Again, thank you :)** **  
**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N Sorry - zero time. Too much to do, too little time! Cracking right on!**

* * *

The rehearsals started and continued swimmingly. Carlotta remained silent throughout the entirety of it so far, but a contented silence. Not one scowl cast toward anyone about anything. Though things stayed as they had originally been, people stayed out of her way and if they did not, she still had the words to have them shake in their boots. But nobody spoke behind her back anymore.

It seemed that her ordeal with Christine Daae had earned her more respect. The fear harnessed by many, now dwindling.

Nadir grinned at Angier as he all but bounced in his seat in pleasure.

"It's come together well," Nadir commented easily in a moment when Angier had stilled, "You've been rescued from Carlotta's wrath."

Angier chuckled, having the decency to not shy away from reality – Carlotta rattled him too.  
"This is true! I am content."

"Hmm…don't let yourself relax too much, my friend, this madness isn't quite over yet."

"Whatever do you mean?" Angier stopped his clapping at one of the act's performances, frowning.

Nadir swivelled in his seat a little more to look at Angier,  
"Don't tell me you've forgotten about the Opera Ghost and Christine Daae."

"Ah."

It was regrettable to see the young Manager's face sour so quickly after having been so care-free mere moments before.

"We shall continue to keep a whither eye out." He nodded resolutely, contented with his own answer and prepared to forget the chat.

But Nadir shook his head, stealing a glance at a rather attractive act who had appeared on stage. Olive skin, emerald green eyes.

"The situation is changing, Monsieur," Nadir informed him, pulling Angier from his resolve. When Angier gave him a baffled stare, Nadir jerked his head toward a couple of rows back to where the Comte sat, deep in thought and not entirely happy.

"What of him? So he's in love with a woman who won't love him back. C'est la vie!"

"No, no…I don't think it is so simple. The De Chagny's are a brave few. If he thinks Christine is in danger then he will not hesitate to take action without us."

"Well _is_ she in danger?" Angier asked cautiously.

"I don't know. Erik is mad, always has been. The De Chagny's are brash. Both men, Raoul and this one have always had a tendency to believe Christine to be still a child, incapable of making logical and independent choices. It is a fair thought…"

"But not when you have only just met her again after 3 years, hmm? I presume you now see what no one else can see." Angier answered with a half-smile.

Nadir tapped his nose.

"There you go. If he does choose to meddle, then I'm not sure Monsieur le Fantom will continue to be so sane."

"You think he is sane?"

Nadir was given pause, ignoring the imploring look upon the manager's face,

"So, you see my worry, yes?"

"I see your worry, yes." Angier clapped his hands together but once, a sign of his determination, "So! What do we do?"

Nadir stifled a chuckle,  
"We don't let the Comte out of our sight."

"That's it?" Angier's shoulders sank, "That's…it?"

"That is it. This thing has the potential to resolve itself, in time. So let us see, yes? Just –"

When both men glanced back, the Comte was gone and Nadir's words died in his mouth.

Angier took in a sharp breath, mirroring Nadir's sudden unease.  
"Apparently it is not so easy."

 **OOOooooOOOOoooOOO**

Christine swept off of the stage, her voice beginning to tire and yet knowing full well that Erik would have her sing until she fell to her knees in an effort to make sure that not only she, but he as well, was prepared for the following night's performance.

After having spoken to Nadir and Angier about her further activities, furthermore discovering that Philip De Chagny was not present and was a mystery as to his whereabouts, she disappeared into the old dressing room.

She managed to find her way quite quickly this time though she only ever needed to walk so far before the Phantom of the Opera would spirit her away under his wing.

"I was beginning to think you were never going to come." Came his smooth, disembodied voice, thrown around the darkness like a plaything, leaving Christine at a loss as to where to look.

"I must admit," the voice continued, "The rehearsals are very thorough – tomorrow night will be a night to remember."

At last he emerged from her right, painfully close and yet never daring to brush a hair against her body.

"I'll always come, it is an important night after all. I can't get it wrong." She countered, instinctively moving away from him, his presence as haunting as ever.

"I hope so. But I wonder…" he trailed off, his chin held for moment, poised in the air as if being spectacularly arrogant but the unspoken words remained aloof and never formulated. Christine sensed their meaning regardless of sound or not but she dared not address them for fear of the outcome.

"Come," he said instead, daring to offer his hand once again, "We no longer have much time, you and I."

Christine, once again, hesitated at the sight of his hand but Erik, the Phantom of the Opera, remained ever patient, waiting for her to take his hand instead of him taking hers.

She did, eventually and was surprised by its warmth. But it was a gloved hand; a comfortable leather sheath that protected the warmth from the cold. An acceptable allusion, Christine concluded as he led her down once more.

Once they had made it into his house, the stone walls so immaculately laid down to encompass such an immaculate piece of architecture, Erik wasted no time in all but dragging her to the organ chanting 'Sing' over and over again as if it were his mantra.

Christine didn't as a result and simply watched him in amusement as he seemed to flutter about the organ talking excitedly about singing and how well things were coming along.

"Carlotta." He then said, out of the abyss of words that had fallen at his feet, "She seems to have had a change of heart."

Christine almost choked on nothing at the sudden subject matter.

"…yes…I suppose she has."

"Why was she embracing you?"

"Does it matter?"

"Believe it or not, yes it does. She's a conniving little devil and trust means everything to me."

"I'm capable of handling myself now, Erik. I'm a grown woman."

He smirked,

"Hardly."

There struck a pregnant moment of silence after those words tumbled out of his mouth. Erik was aware that he had said something abysmally incorrect but could not bring himself to face his mistake. Christine tried to reel in her rage, the sudden fountain of tears that tingled at the back of her eyes which she had sworn she had outgrown.

"I don't believe you mean that." She told him lightly, treading egg shells as she tried not to suddenly burst into tears. Carlotta had been a rather sudden light in the darkness and here this appalling man was shaming her for it.

"I…don't mean it in such a literal sense. I mean that you are far too trusting. Child-like."

"When was the last time you actually spoke to the Signora?"

Erik whipped around, sitting down at his organ without a care to look her in the eye.

"It doesn't matter. My point, my dear, is that no one changes that drastically in the space of no time at all." He answered her bitterly.

"She didn't change…" Christine tried carefully, understanding dawning upon her with each look Erik failed to give her, "She's always been that way. Somewhere beneath the diva, she's always been this way."

"I've known her far longer than you have, Christine, do you honestly think that's true?"

Christine was silent for a moment; she filtered all the things she could have said in response to him – all of them just as hurtful as the other, all of them related to his time as the Opera Ghost.

"You're jealous." She barely whispered to him and the words froze him. He was so still Christine thought she may have frozen time itself and yet, a small, insignificant little creature flapped its tiny wings across her vision without a care other than how to escape the hole it found itself in.

Pity; poor, little thing. Christine watched it for only a moment before returning her attention to Erik.

"Jealous of what, my dear?" he asked her coolly, the mirth dripping off of every word, "That she got to comfort you? That she got to hear you tearful secrets? That she got to whisper lovely, little comforts into your ear to soothe you? Oh no. If it were the Comte, I might be inclined to agree but jealous of Carlotta? Oh, my dear, no."

He rose, all the more agile in the dangerous throes of a building rage. But for the life of her, Christine didn't know what had begun to anger him. His stealthy approach made her weary. Every day she had told herself that he would never dare hurt her. Alas, the doubts cascaded in from over the certainty with this death march he was making towards her.

"You have no right." She tried to say, mustering as much defiance as she could and failing, "I needed someone – anyone! Carlotta was there and it was genuine. I don't believe that she means to toss me aside the moment she has the chance and quite frankly; I don't mind if she does."

Erik stopped, surprised.

"…what?"

"She's given me a comfort, Erik, one that I couldn't find anywhere else. She can have the world as far as I'm concerned. Funny," her gaze dropped to Erik's pristine black, polished shoes, "Not too long ago, I disliked her just as much as she apparently hated me. Why do you begrudge me all my comforts?"

She regretted the words the instant they came out and yet she could not bring herself to apologise. Even as he drew away from her, a wounded animal in retreat with nowhere to run, she could not apologise.

"I do not begrudge you your comforts. I am merely sceptical of their origin." He said this with a hurt, matter-of-fact tone. His infuriating line of defence, Christine knew. Ghost or not, _genius_ or not he was still just a man who did the same thing as other men – or at the very least, Raoul – when they had their pride tinkered with. They became obnoxious and factual.

"Does it matter if they comfort me? Some lies are meant for good." She told his back as he turned from her back to his organ, "Some lies are told knowing full well that when the truth comes out, it'll be disappointing but at the very least, the hurt will mostly be gone."

"So if Carlotta does take the world from you, you will not be hurt because she offered you this… _comfort…_ " he sneered, "So be it. You may have this false sense of security but rest assured; if she does try anything…uncouth…"

"You will remind her of the Opera Ghost. You will remind her of Piangi. You will remind her of your terrible wrath and incredible ability to over-look the fundamentals of humanity, empathy, kindness –"

"All things that make us human, yes. Have you forgotten what I am so soon, my dear?!" Erik was up again, a whirl of fury, storming towards Christine, reaching for her, eyes as hard as stone and hands of iron opening themselves up to her, "A Godforsaken monster! I have and will always be that way! You dare forget it?!"

Christine was frozen stiff, even as his hands clamped like claws on her shoulders in a vice grip,

"YOU DARE FORGET IT! YOU DARE ME TO BE ANYTHING OTHER THAN THAT? YOU PRETTY LITTLE FOOL!"

"Let go."

He did. Instantly. He was crying. A quiet release of torment, once again slowly sinking to his knees,

"I am no man at all, Christine! I cannot offer you those comforts you so desire and I begrudge others who can! I am a monster because of that! A monster living amongst monstrosities who have the audacity to think themselves kind!" he cried, clutching her dress, "And you, my love, indeed kind and compassionate and here with me now believe them all. It saddens me to know that you do not see what is right in front of you. I embody them all!"

"You embody no one but you, Erik. Please," she whispered, trying again to pry her dress from the troubled man's slender fingers, "Please, Erik, we all have a little bit of monster in us. We all act on it on occasion."

"You don't!"

"You have yet to see me lose my temper." She offered him a tired smile, a jest if she dared but Erik stared blankly at her as if he didn't understand. "Come, get up…"

He rose with her help, a wonderment that had his eyes wide and his lips poised in an 'O' shape.

"You're an enigma, Erik," she told him, allowing her smile to stay where it was, "You're not a monster. Perhaps a little misguided."

Erik let out a peculiar puff of air as if he had attempted to laugh but couldn't quite find the energy.

"I am jealous." He told at last.

"I know."

Silence. Oh, how strange it was and here she thought Erik had finally found his peace, able to withstand the weight of the world as a sane man but jealousy got the best of him. Of all things; jealousy.

Without another word, he went back to his organ. She sang once and no more and the rest of their evening was her gazing at his back while he sat well poised to play a beautiful something that just couldn't quite find life.

 **OooOOOOoooOOOOooo**

Following them had not been easy but gone were the days where the Ghost had to look behind him. No one cared anymore.  
Phillipe, in the darkness and with an unsettling sense of hurt, turned from the dream that was before him and trudged from the opera depths up towards the light.

 **OoOOOoOOOOOoooOOo**

Nadir bid the manager a fond farewell as he headed back to his hotel. The night was getting on but with the gala the very next day, well things needed to be prepared and Angier would not be missing a minute of it. The man had a boundless amount of energy that Nadir didn't understand.

He smiled to himself, hands in his pockets as he strolled contentedly down the walk-way. Movement ahead caught his eye, however and upon looking on, he guessed it to be non-other than Phillipe. He didn't even glance back to look at who was coming behind him. The man, in his tall stature and straight posture – in every way a gentleman – appeared to be sleepwalking as if in a dream. He floated more than walked, a steady pace that the moonlight leant light well to accommodate.

"Monsieur le Comte!" Nadir called clearly and yet he had to call twice before the Comte turned to acknowledge him. Even then, his turn was slow and deliberate. Nadir wondered whether perhaps he should have let the Comte be. The man seemed tired and unsettled. An uneasy feeling of guilt was dripping from his being though his eyes were hard.

"Monsieur Kahn, a pleasant evening. I trust everything for the gala tomorrow is going well."

"Yes, Monsieur." Nadir answered him wearily but didn't continue.

The Comte nodded,

"And I assume Monsieur Angier is still wide awake and prancing around making arrangements."

Nadir tasted the bitterness of those words. He frowned,

"I wouldn't put it that way, Monsieur. He's an energetic man but he is in control of what he is doing."

"Is he aware of where all the dancers go when they're not dancing? Or where the singers go when they're not singing?"

Nadir took a step away from him, drawing his hands from out his pocket. The Comte was angry. Seething, in fact. Nadir felt threatened which was an unexpected feeling around the De Chagny's. Men of high society.

"Where is Christine?"

"You are tired, Monsieur." Nadir said carefully, edging around the Comte, "As am I. You will see her in the morning, I am sure but for now, you and I must find sleep. It will do you good."

"I haven't slept in many nights, Monsieur Kahn." Phillipe snapped rather suddenly, drawing Nadir to a halt, "I haven't slept because of a great many reasons, many of which you are aware. All I am asking is _where_ Christine is. Believe me, Sir, when I say, I fear for her safety."

"She…she _is_ safe, Monsieur." Nadir put his hands up, "Is this not enough to hear it from me. I who knows the ghost better than us all."

"It would be, Monsieur…but you all have done so fine a job of excluding me from the goings on of the Opera Ghost and Mademoiselle Daae that I feel the trust slowly slipping away."

Nadir, observing the shift in weight of the Comte's coat suddenly felt the dread rise in him,

"Monsieur Comte…what have you done?"

Phillipe gave a limp, lifeless smile, nodded and began to retreat, offering up a wistful wave,

"Good evening, Monsieur Kahn."

He left Nadir standing there in the cool night air, unsure of what to do with his hands.

 **OoOOOOOoOoOoO**

Christine wondered back early the next morning, having stopped by to gaze on the spectacle that was the stage. It's old, rusty charm somewhat dimmed by the dazzling show-lights that paved the way for the future of staged theatre.  
It was bright and festive with strings of glitter that hung from all over, masquerade masks that had been pinned masterfully to various pieces of wall that could be seen, vivacious feathers poked out from the wings and enormous plant-life adding to the madness as if the entire setting was amidst a jungle. Ultimately, it was a spectacular show of vaudeville.

The celebrations that would follow the night's events was sure to be one of some magnitude. One which many would not remember in the morning. It would be to the masses what it would not be to Christine. Or Phillipe. Or Nadir. Or even Erik. She never loved Raoul, not the way he loved her but he was and would always be her closest friend and to sing his send off as if it were a requiem would be a relief.

"An utter monstrosity."

Christine sighed.  
"I thought you had stayed down there."

"And leave you to wonder whimsically back on your own?" She turned to Erik, his mask not fitting to the peculiar anticipation laced in his voice,  
"I would never do such a thing."

"No."

Erik went silent and Christine didn't dare meet his eyes just then.

"It is a bit much, isn't it? Oh well, it's not my place." She gave the stage a slight nod of disapproval before turning sternly back to Erik, hands laced behind his back with the perfect demeanour of the gentleman, "Nor is it yours. Do _not_ cause any havoc this evening. Monsieur Angier has put a lot of effort into this."

"I can see that. A lot of effort but not a lot of thought."

"Erik."

The Opera Ghost's eyes lit up at their corners and Christine recognised his smile. Such an odd sensation, she thought, to know that she could now tell when he was smiling.

"I won't touch a thing, Mademoiselle."

"Have a good day, Erik. I will see you this evening. Wait where you will but please enter the stage when I introduce as any normal person might do; humbly and with grace. Please?"

"I'm neither humble nor gracious, Christine, what you're asking is far-"

"Goodbye." She turned away from his infuriating amusement to leave him standing in the quiet of the auditorium only to have her call her back. Were it not for a slight hitch in his tone, she might have waved him off.

She turned back to find his exterior had changed again. It made her uneasy but it was by no means an aggressive change; in fact he seemed skittish, easily startled as his hands began to ring each other and his weight shifted from his right foot to his left and back.

"Do you truly mean to have me perform with you on stage?"

Her shoulders dropped,  
"Or course."

He relaxed, a wave of contented acceptance flowed from him and yet, she could see there was more for him to say. She waited.

"What, might I ask, is to happen after the performance?"

She knitted her brows and found she had not the answer, or perhaps the heart to tell him. Maybe she lacked the stamina to answer it herself.  
It was the question she had been evading ever since having decided to work with him.

"We go to the ball." She said simply, chastising herself for bearing his appalled silence with an indifference she didn't feel. He knew full well she was neglecting to answer his question deliberately and it must have hurt. He didn't press her any further. His shoulders seemed to grow lax as his hands dropped to his sides, the melancholic mask finally fitting his person again.

She walked away, unable to avoid a shake that had taken hold, a dangerous sob daring her to let out a breath.  
 _Sleep._ She thought. _Sleep and all shall be clearer in the morning._

But Phillipe was sitting on a chair by the hearth, eyes blood shot, face grim, body as stiff as wet paper. Moulded to his chair as if they were made together.

"You haven't slept," she told him carefully as he watched her enter, "Are you alright?"

"Am I alright?" A burst of manic laughter escaped from tight lips, "I'm quite well if not a little perturbed by the hour of your return. You do know your performance is tonight? That you will be singing for a very great audience once more and that it will be for my brother?"

"Yes, Phillipe," she answered, her voice barely above a whisper under the malevolent toil of Philip's words, "I am aware. I am ready. I swear it but I must sleep now, for a few hours or –"

"Why, did you not sleep there? Underground?"

"Phillipe, what's the matter?"

He rose, the energy that wafted off of his person frightened her, surprising her in its ferocity yet he moved gently and his voice didn't rise a decibel. Then it all went away. Suddenly he looked very tired, his eyes were bright and the bags under his eyes made his face look gaunt and haunting. In one minute, Phillipe aged ten years.

Instinctively, she raised a hand to cup his face, her thumb flowing over the rise of his cheekbone, sharper than it had been two weeks prior.  
Without hesitation, he pressed his face into her hand, shutting his eyes to the feeling of warmth that came from it.

"Phillipe?"

"I want you to be safe, Christine." He told her, his lips moving against the denture of her palm, "That's all. I don't like you wondering the depths of the opera house alone with this…this…"

"Man." She finished for him, not unkindly, "This _man._ It is imperative that we all come to terms with that. Bearing this burden will become simpler once you realise that we deal in tangible things. God knows my life is somewhat more understandable now that this ghost is…real."

"But you didn't leave it behind – You didn't leave him behind, Christine and that's what should have happened. We should have moved on. We're here."

He took a hold of her hand just as it dropped from his face and held it in such earnestness, she thought the threat of him losing his propriety was quite possible.

"I'm here for Raoul, Phillipe. To –"

"Lay the ghost to rest, as it were. Yes, I heard." His gaze shifted from her bitterly to a spot out of her peripheral vision. When his gaze returned to her, the softness was gone, the exhaustion stamped out. In its place, lay its cold echo. Betrayal and sarcasm dripped from those last few words so venomously that Christine feared a spontaneous outburst of regrettable vernacular.

Phillipe was angry with her because she couldn't see what he thought he saw. Danger in every corner. Maybe that was so but Christine no longer had the energy to fend off the shadows that kept creeping into her soul every time she closed her eyes. The shadows that followed her from here to there in her dreams without being seen and whom she missed in her waking hours.

Raoul. She closed her eyes briefly to the sound of his name in her head. Erik.

Raoul brought to mind the memory of the sea. A calming and collected memory.

Erik brought music. A million music notes that floated in between dreams. The trouble was; she would always choose music over the sea.

"Are you sure that's all you're here for? You see, Christine, I don't think you ever managed to shake this 'Phantom'. His hold is still on your wrist. I promised Raoul and myself that – "

"You would keep me safe? That's all very well and good, Monsieur," She noted how Phillipe flinched at her formality, a shocked hurt flashing in his eyes, "But have you not noticed how Monsieur Khan is here to do the same and yet he seems to have taken a step back…Maybe you have the wrong of it."

"He does not understand…"

"How can that be so? He was there with Raoul that night. He knows _Erik_ inside out. If he has taken a step back then maybe you should too. I'm not asking you to abandon me, Phillipe! My dear, dear Phillipe – all I'm asking is that you trust me. Trust that I am able to make my own, _rational_ decisions."

She held onto his hands having grasped them in her fire, clutching them firmly so that he might feel as well as hear her resolve in the matter. He consented to her, bowing his head meekly in the wake of her words and yet something in the way his eyes grew distant and, for lack of a better word, cold, worried Christine. He was never and would never be a bad man. But all humans were prone to misguidance and if any flaws were to be given to the Chagny men, they were self-righteous to the bone.

"Very well." He told her simply, allowing her to let go of his hands, his fingertips sliding from hers limply, "Tomorrow, this will all be over."

Christine stared at him as he held her gaze, adding a little more gently, a warm and tired smile gracing his rigid lips,

"The Show-case, of course. Don't look at me so."

But his smile slipped from his face as he turned away, straightening his coat.

* * *

 **A/N Please leave a review :)**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N Hello team. Sorry this has taken so bloody long but unfortunately I caught up with myself and my writing and so when I posted the last chapter I was far from finished with this one. Same goes for the next but we're coming close to our end.  
I hope you're still with me :)**

* * *

Phillipe was not able to sleep. He had been pacing for the better half of the night until he had decided he could walk no more and sat down.  
The rest of the night was a continuous flux of creaking floor boards, sighs and more pacing when his mind got too busy. Thus, Christine could not sleep either.

Every time he paced, she wondered what on earth he could be wondering about. When he was still, she wondered if, perhaps, now she could sleep. The cycle would repeat until at last she rose in the wee hours of the morning and stole to the door of Phillipe and peered through the key hole.

Pacing with such ferocious worry, Phillipe had his hands in his pockets, in his hair, on each other, on a little black something, caressing it even, as it lay dead and unmoving on his side table.

Moments later, he'd rip his hand away and sit down. Even further moments later, he'd get up and pace once more. Christine frowned and raised her hand to knock on the door when suddenly she froze. Phillipe stopped pacing and turned abruptly. She felt as if he could see her through its wooden panelling. She panicked, the look in his eyes was almost feral.

He marched to the door, slipping whatever was on the table into his breast pocket where his tail-coat was visibly weighed down by it.  
Christine had no time to retreat, not without making all the noise in the world. She stood up and raised her hand, posing as if to knock and be caught in the act of having just about to do so.

The door swung open and the sudden feral-ness of Phillipe's eyes died instantly.

"Christine!" he gasped, his hands dropping to his sides, his coat on the left sagging.

"Phillipe, my dear, you can't sleep and I can hear you walking back and forth –" she blurted out, perhaps too fast, perhaps too timidly.

"I'm sorry I woke you." He answered evenly, the shock fading from his features, the Comte returning to his senses, "I truly am. Especially on the morning of your great performance."

The silence that followed was a pregnant one. Filled with unspoken words that perhaps should have been addressed but were left to hang in the cold.

"No need to apologise, Phillipe. Just…what's keeping you up? You know you can confide in me."

It was far too automated, some bazar defence mechanism that had her saying things she would never say. She would never appeal to Phillipe in this way – never had she even appealed to Raoul in this manner. Not even Erik! The Phantom who appealed to her in every manner under the sun, constantly learning what draws her in and pushes her out.

Phillipe, upon this very appeal, seemed to withhold a grimace, a twisted look of disgust at such a poor attempt at helping him.

"I know this but there's nothing to confide," he shrugged, "I was heading out for a walk. Clear my head. You know I'm not particularly happy with the shape of things at present. I need a bit of solitude before this evening."

"Of course."

"You will be attending the gala that follows it, yes?"

"I will."

"Good. I will more than likely see you there, then, Mademoiselle. Until then."

Without another word, nor another glance, he moved past her into the dawn. She listened to his steady boots as they retreated through the front of their little hotel, and even as he made his way towards wherever his feet had him going, until at last it felt like she was listening to a memory. A sense of nostalgia. A dream – perhaps Phillipe was never truly there. Yet here she stood in his doorway. Somewhat put out by the fact that he had not offered up his arm in accompaniment for the nights events.

She turned from his room, ignoring the urge to explore it. He had been growing more and more distant for days now. She knew he was discomforted by the presence of the Phantom but was it so dreadful that he all but abandoned her?

She sighed, pitter-pattering down the hall back to her room.  
She did up her bodice and the laces on her dress, squeezing her dainty feet into petit shoes and lacing them up too.

She gazed at her complexion in the mirror. A little pale perhaps but otherwise she liked her reflection. She gently pinched her cheeks until the colour bloomed in them like roses. Her hair was as wild as it would ever be and she had not the heart to change it. Not this day. So she left it in wild abundance.

She left the hotel early. Heading towards the Opera House. When she got there, Nadir was sitting on the steps. Beside him – he was unmistakeable – Erik. Both men looked like men in its most grounding sense. They sat, legs apart with their hands clasped and hanging through the parting. Erik was talking, a little above a whisper while Nadir had his head hung low in earnest, his eyes shut; an intent listener.

As she approached, both men oblivious to her arrival, she heard whispered uncertainty and a dire want.

When Erik did look up, his face free of his mask, he didn't even falter – nor did he seem surprised. Instead, Christine felt that her presence was more expected than anything.

"She's here." He told Nadir while gazing at her, his features so mixed up in themselves that she still could not tell from his face alone what he felt about her being there. His tone was gentle. His voice reassured her of her place beside them.

Nadir looked up and smiled wearily.

"You're here very early, Mademoiselle." He told her, glancing up at the early rays of the sun, " _Very_ early."

"I wanted to get a head-start on the day." She answered him pleasantly before stopping directly in front of them and turning her attention to Erik. He rose on cue.

"I expect we shall see you later, Persian."

Nadir nodded.

"Don't get too caught up. Today is important for us all."

Erik looked as if her were about to snap at Erik but Christine laid a hand gently upon the crook of his thin elbow, paper skin that the bone appeared to be preparing to tear through – even beneath the linen of his dress-shirt.

"I understand, Monsieur Khan." She answered for them both, noting how Erik's gaze dropped to the ground now growing in colour as the morning grew older.

"I'm sure _you_ do, Mademoiselle!" Nadir laughed, "But it's not you I'm worried about."

Christine smiled, glancing at Erik, grimacing at the ground though he was. She stole away from his side only a moment, kneeling to Nadir as her dress bloomed about her,

"You must find Phillipe for me. I don't know where he might have gone but he was terribly out of sorts when I left him this morning."

Nadir nodded, a grave lilt in his brow, a peculiar quiver of his lips. Christine took his hand and squeezed, fearful of what the Persian, himself, feared.

Sparing him a lingering gaze, Christine rose and retreated from him back to Erik. She dared to slip her arm into his, feeling him freeze at the impact before she could no longer tell whether she was walking, floating or crawling.

 **OoOOOOOoOoOoo**

Nadir searched all over the park – it was the only place he imagined he would find the Comte but the Comte could not be found. Or would not be found…whatever suited him, Nadir supposed.

He headed back to the Opera House, his shoulders feeling impossibly heavy. When at last he arrived, dragging his feet up the stairs into the main foyer, he was surprised to find none other than the Comte himself, looking cheerier than the impression Christine had left him.

"Monsieur. You're here early. Both of you." Nadir bowed his head as he approached. The Comte and Angier were in a deep discussion concerning God knew what but there were many laughs and Angier seemed sure of himself. The Comte had resumed his air of authority and youthful assurance. He stood with his back straight, nodding back in greeting but not replying to Nadir's arrival.

He still looked very tired, though. A long night's wondering about his room evident on his worn features.

"Well, lot's to do, Nadir, my good man!" Angier exclaimed when Nadir came to a halt, "And just the man I wanted to see too. The Comte and I have a rather pressing question we would like to ask you."

"Go on then." Nadir placed his hands behind his back, bracing himself for whatever enquiry about Erik was to come forth.

"Will this ghost of ours –"

"Erik." Nadir corrected.

Angier paused, glancing between Nadir and Phillipe, who frowned but did not look up at Nadir.

"Will Erik be accompanying Mademoiselle Daae to the after-party, this evening?" He asked carefully.

"I'd be a fool to assume so." Nadir rocked on his heels. Observing the Comte's shift in stance.

"You don't know then." Phillipe's voice was quite gravelly, his gaze hard despite his relaxed exterior.

"That is correct, Comte. But…why ask?" Nadir steadied himself, turning back to Angier.

"Well quite frankly I don't know. I'm just curious. Maybe I can ask him to kindly stop haunting us." Angier chuckled uncomfortably.

Phillipe gave a singular, humorous huff,

"I just wanted to know whether finding him was going to be tough or easy."

"What do you need to find him for?" Nadir asked pointedly, turning to Phillipe in a slow roll of his feet.

Angier's face went suddenly pale.

"Please, gentlemen, not this day and not this night. Or even ever! My reputation depends on all of this."

"Calm down, Monsieur Angier," Phillip goaded, "Nothing bad will become of this predicament. I just would like to talk and I know full well he won't want to talk to me."

"That's unwise, Monsieur. You should stay well away." Nadir warned.

"I won't leave Christine to her own foolish endeavours with that…man. He's dangerous. Where is she now, is she rehearsing with him?"

"Probably."

"Where?"

"I don't know."

Without warning Phillipe took a threatening step toward Nadir, drawing up to his full height – a couple of inches taller than him.

Nadir was a tall man already. If the truth were to have its day, Nadir would have admitted to being intimidated by the height of Comte Phillipe De Chagny but it could not be so.

"I'm disinclined to believe you, Monsieur Kahn." Phillipe said far too quietly for courtesy, "I ask only so that I can do the duty my brother has left me accountable for."

"Your brother would understand the change of circumstance, Monsieur Comte. He was there. You were not. I implore you, please, to trust me."

De Chagny frowned. His posture had not changed a bit, his steps had been even in their quest hither and thither. Even with his veiled threat towards Nadir, his stance maintained its dignity. Hands clasped firmly behind his impeccably straight back.

He stepped away. Beside them, Angier let out a visibly relieved breath. Nadir did the same though only after the Comte had departed, leaving the two men alone.

Nadir shook his head and proceeded to find a chair to sit down in.

He slumped down.

"Nadir," came Angier's timid tone, "Nadir, my good man, I'm sorry to trouble you but you said it was best to keep an eye on him. I have. He comes to the Opera House more often than you, my friend and not always in the arm of Miss Daae."

Nadir looked up.  
"What are you saying, Benoit?"

"He's looking for something. He's often seen wondering backstage, trying and failing to open the trapdoors there. He's even entered Mademoiselle's old dressing-room. One of the girls have informed me he was feeling the walls around the mirror…"

Nadir straightened, his eyes wide,

"And? Did he find it?"

"Find what?"

"The way in."

"I…doubt it…the way into what, Monsieur?"

Nadir relaxed and put his head in his hands,

"Erik's house."

"…his house." Angier drew a blank expression that might have had Nadir laugh were he in the mood.

"Yes. How do you expect him to live in the opera house? Perhaps in a hole. Perhaps with the rats? Perhaps simply in the walls like a true ghost – maybe even a vampire!"

"A house…underground?" Angier ignored Nadir's jest and looked appalled. Nadir could only muster a shrug, then said more sternly,

"He must never find the entrance, Angier. Never. The mirror was an impossibly close call – I imagine the Vicomte told him about it which explains why he doesn't believe me about not knowing where his house his…" he hmm'd to himself, narrowing his eyes in thought, "There are other ways in, Benoit. Some of the trapdoors lead down into the cellars and further down to the lake. Allah forbid we should ever need to go down there."

"But with all his looking around," the Manager countered fearfully, "He is sure to find a way."

"He is sure too indeed."

"Then why – "

"It is a matter of betrayal. Whether or not he finds it, it must not be from any information of ours."

Angier stared at Nadir dully before nodding. Nadir stood up and offered his hand to young Manager. Cowardly as he was, he was a good friend.

"Monsieur Angier!" came a sudden shriek, interrupting their quiet moment of solidarity.

Angier whipped around, his hand falling from Nadir's in shock. Nadir cocked his eyebrow as Carlotta sailed towards them in a frock that appeared to have been made to propel ships across the see.

"Monsieur Manager, where is Christine Daae?" she approached Angier with an air of such excitement, she threatened to not stop sailing and bowl the two men over. But she did, gripping Angier's hands tightly, "I must speak with her at once!"

Angier, whose mouth had been opening and closing over the course of her arrival, could not find any words,

"I…" he stammered before turning to Nadir blankly, "I don't know what to say."

"She's rehearsing." Nadir responded calmly.

Carlotta released Angier's hands and placed her own on her hips;  
"I assume so but where? I have seen the Comte but no Christine."

"Where do you suppose, Signora?" Nadir bowed his head, allowing a small smile to dance on his all-too-often grim lips.

Carlotta gasped, a hand shooting to her chest in dismay,

"With _him?_ Well," she turned back to Angier, "You must get her back! We must have at least one full dress rehearsal of the show this evening."

"We've had many, Signora…" Angier argued meekly.

"But not with Christine Daae! Why she is exempt is beyond me!" Carlotta waved her hand indignantly, "I wish to inform her that we will be singing a duet."

Angier went speechless. Nadir raised his chin;  
"A duet? When? How? How can you be sure Mademoiselle Daae will know the song you are to sing? Assuming you have in one mind, of course."

"Trust in me, Monsieur, she will know." Carlotta said confidently, "All I need you to do – (She poked Angier in the chest lightly.) Is make sure she knows and is here. I think we will do it at the end. A good send off, I think, no?"

Angier, still speechless, could not even think to shake or nod his head. Nadir could not answer on his behalf so both men stared blankly as Carlotta smiled smugly and waltzed off.

It was a few minutes before Angier finally managed to utter any words.

"I had such high hopes for this…" he told Nadir mournfully. Nadir, in turn, felt just as blindsided by the mess.

"I'm sure you did."

 **OoOOOoOoOoOOO**

"Erik…"

"Do it again, Christine, I insist." Erik didn't even look back at Christine. Her voice was perfect, she knew exactly how to control it, her pitch was good, posture was good, breathing regulated – she couldn't really do any better. Yet, he couldn't bear to have her stop.

"Erik, look at me."

"No."

He heard her huff and found himself doing the same thing.

"Why not?"

"Because."

"Because nothing, Erik, please look at me. This is our last night together before the gala and then-"

"And then….what?" He jerked his head halfway, so that he had his ear to her and so that she was in his periphery but blurred. A half-hearted turn.

"And then we decide."

"Decide upon what? Upon your transport of choice back to Sweden? Leaving myself and the Daroga behind."

"Erik."

"Oh! The Daroga came with you, did he not? Ah, yes. So…just me. Again."

"This is childish."

"Is it so…" these last three words slithered out like a smooth but very sharply pointed blade.

Christine went silent for so long, he began to wonder as to whether she was still in the room. He turned abruptly in a moment of panic.

"Christine!" he called only to find that she was standing incredibly still, staring at him with a heartbroken look on her face. The tears on her cheeks, along with the light, made her face appear as if the light inside had cracked through. She was incomprehensibly beautiful. He gasped.

"I would like to stay." She told him weakly, his heart suddenly unsure of how to beat – fast, slow, stop, start – what? Erik thought he would die.

"Then…then do!" Suddenly he was up, rushing towards Christine with an intense purpose to hold her. Kiss her, even! If he so dared, but a metre or so away, he stopped. Unsure of how to proceed, what to say.

"You…" he started, "Stay. You may stay here. You can stay at your silly, little hotel if you prefer – stay wherever you like! I can find the means to support you, however which way!"

She giggled through her tears and looked down. Erik dared to take a step closer, reaching for her face with both hands, drawing her eyes back to him.  
She shivered under his deathly cold touch but her skin was so soft, the tears so warm, everything was so…

Wonderfully warm. He remembered how it was when he cried and her tears fell over his face. For a moment, distraught and dismantled as it was, all was right with the world.

"You would offer me the world, wouldn't you, Erik?" she sniffled.

He nodded vigorously, suddenly desperately unsure as to what was coming next. A sudden whir of absurd thoughts took over his already troubled mind – if she were to ask, how would he do it? The world was awfully big and he would know.

His hands were then abruptly wrapped in more warmth than he could ever remember possible and his vision came back into focus.

"I'm not and would never ask that of you, Erik. It's madness. And I don't know how to rule the world."

A moment of silence passed between them and Christine's enigmatic heartbreak seemed to return but more subtly.

"What is it?" he asked her, his hands still holding her cheeks, reluctant to let go.

"There's someone at the door."

Erik turned, hands indeed dropping from her face with vigour a new.

An intruder!

Erik reached inside his coat, wondering if, perhaps, the damned Comte had finally found his way in. The man had been hunting for him for far too damned long, it was well past time. Then what?  
Erik stalled, turning back to Christine who was creeping along behind him.

"What?" She whispered.

He didn't get a chance to respond before a thickly accented voice made itself known with its person of origin appearing soon after.

"Put the Punjab away, you two have to get up to the theatre."

"Nadir!" Christine gasped in shock. Erik found that instead of relief, he felt annoyed. Always the damn Persian.

Nadir seemed to recognise this on Erik's face and smiled smugly,

"You too, Ghost. Apparently both of you are required upstairs."

"Oh. Rehearsals…" Christine put her fingers to her lips thoughtfully, "I forgot about that."

"Yes…and no. Carlotta wants to have a word with you. Something about a duet."

"Absolutely not!" Erik suddenly cut in, a fury at the very mention of Carlotta's name sending him into an almost maniacal state of being.

"A duet with that woman will destroy you!"

"Oh, hush." Christine told him defiantly, rolling her eyes at him much to the surprise of Erik and Nadir both. Nadir stifled an obvious chuckle much to his own disdain.

"Hold your tongue tightly, Daroga." He snapped, "Christine –"

"I'll hear no more of it. Come."

She slipped past Nadir without another word and Nadir followed soon thereafter. Erik stood, taken aback, alone in his empty house below the ground. With naught left else to defy and for what, anyhow? He followed grudgingly, step by step. Each foot slamming down harder on the ground than the one before it.

Suddenly Christine turned on him, having been rigid the whole way up the stairs.

She turned and gripped his thin arms as tight as she could,

"STOP!" She yelled. She made him jump – when did he get so fickle in the wake of this woman? He used to be so strong and now? And. Now?!  
Then his limbs seemed to relax and his gaze softened, his grump seemingly easing as he realised he was never that strong.

"Acting like a child!" Christine finished, her fiery temper entirely new and entirely frightening.

He had never been subject to the wrath of being on the receiving end of direct anger. Always the bystander. Always a wall of some shape or form. Being around all the components that had his first and most powerful wall crumble to the ground was making his second shake in its boots. He never dared to admit it. Occasionally, in the darkness, when he closed his eyes, he thought it was because he couldn't bear to be behind such a wall again. Thus, the only conclusion was the second wall was designed to be broken.

Good Lord, Christine Daae was quite terrifying in this rage when only moments ago she was a mess and _nearly_ in his arms.

"I apologise…" he said meekly. Nadir's face, when he glanced at it, was stone. Probably because Christine had cast him an iron glare too for no other reason than because he was in her line of sight.

More quietly, they ascended and broke into the light. Cascading into the halls of the opera house, light seemed lighter as the air of excitement charged the air.

Erik's shoulders rose and fell on an inexplicable whim. He instinctively adjusted his mask.

"I will see you in the wings then, Madam." He whispered to Christine, making sure his breath blew a few hairs into a chaotic flurry over her ear before settling. She shivered.

Satisfied, he receded back into the darkness. He watched Nadir look around for him, puzzled and irritated. Christine didn't even look back. She had learned. He smirked. He ascended up to the level of the flies, fiddling with some of the wheels, remembering when once he let loose and sent them tumbling to ground. Onto Carlotta. He wondered, albeit briefly, whether he should just do it again.  
He decided against it. Christine would hate him. He couldn't bear that.

The stage below, once quiet, suddenly came alive. The orchestra, who had been gently humming away with whatever tune to warm up suddenly started in a collective. Voices piled in and up. Life seeped into the walls of everything. Erik shut his eyes.

"How beautiful" he told no one in particular and yet he got an answer. An answer courteous enough, however the potential for cruelty dripped from every letter.

"Quite."

Erik sighed, turned and bowed.

"Monsieur Comte De Chagny. It was a matter of time, was it not? Before you found me again."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps you were playing one of your games…" the Comte said coolly, glancing down at the stage, hesitant to make a scene, as it were.

"No, no. No time for that, Monsieur. Tell me, what is your plan? You've been looking long and hard enough. I've seen the way you look at her. You feel enraged by my presence. Well, let me tell you, Monsieur Comte, I'm just as incensed by yours. So, pray, what have you in store for me once you get me entirely alone?"

"A quiet word perhaps."

"With that revolver in your pocket?" Erik quipped, stalling the Comte as his mouth fell open slightly. Appalled that his plan had been spotted, "Hardly."

"A quiet, _civilised_ word, perhaps now, if you would only heed my warning. Stay away from Christine." The Comte said without looking at Erik.

"No."

It was Erik's turn to deny the Comte his eyes as he said it so simply. The Comte cast him a scathing glance before retreating back down to the masses.

Erik knew that if he found him up here, then the Comte knew full well where he, Christine and Nadir had emerged from. His secret was out.

* * *

 **A/N Leave a review, pray :) It would be grand to hear what you're thinking.**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N It's a long one, kids. So buckle down. Penultimate chapter. The Chains are on their last legs.**

* * *

Rehearsals went swimmingly and Christine felt that she was right in her assumption that she could sing the song with or without. However, due to Erik's lack of attendance, she sang the song acapella much to the disgruntled attitude of the new conductor. A shrewd little man with not an ounce of muscle fibre on him and the appearance of willowy, hardly stuffed scarecrow. He went by the name of Monsieur Camille Beaufort.

"Mademoiselle, I have never heard this piece and I have never heard you sing!" He scolded, waving his baton wildly, coming dangerously close to taking out the nearest violinist who leaned further and further back, "How can you expect me to just throw together the music for your song, hmm?"

"I don't." Christine had told him simply. I will be singing it alone for this rehearsal but Monsieur, later, when my time finally comes, you will not be needed and you need not worry."

He harrumphed and folded his arms, much to the relief of the violinist – now out of harm's way,

"You best be right, Ma'mselle. For if all goes aloof, you will not only be singing alone. You will be singing to bring down Monsieur Angier's hard work."

"Oh, Monsieur, there have been worse things to bring down. The chandelier was one of those things." She looked up thoughtfully, and all eyes followed.  
The memory was unanimous. Everyone remembered all at once and a collective mutter fluttered about like a cold wind over still water, then died.

"I don't remember the Chandelier." Beaufort informed her ignorantly. Christine rolled her eyes. In fact, everyone did.

Angier gently stepped in before someone could tell the man to shut up.

"Monsieur, if you would be so kind as to simply do what you are employed to do and let me worry about the performers and their impact on my career."

Beaufort gasped, unfolded his arms, tightened his lips, nodded but once and bowed, giving Christine the stage.  
She sang as if into a void. The music not swallowed but amplified by the silence. Her voice seemed to bounce, echo and last for days after the last note sounded. She kept time by gently snapping her fingers on her right hand, muffling the snap itself so as not to interfere, though that too could be heard in the vastness of the Opera House.

It was no less enchanting. She sang her final lines and her voices faded in a major after a note that threw them all to the ground. It was higher still without the music to accompany it.

A moment of silence. Then a thunderous applause from so few.

"Magnificent…" Beaufort muttered, gobsmacked by what he had seen. He bowed deeply to her, smiled indulgently and applauded too.

At the back of the theatre, Nadir sat quietly grinning at her from afar. Further back still, standing tall and motionless, was Philippe. The only evidence of his genuine feelings was a gentle nod from a face that, if Christine squinted, was not as hard as it had been.

Christine smiled broadly at the sight. She had yet to fall from Philippe's favour it would appear.  
She bowed and gave her thanks to a make-shift audience and had the entire cast flow from the wings. They stood beside her, holding her hands and together they bowed and curtsied and bid the dream farewell.

Angier clapped his hands together.

"Brava!" he cried, "Magnifico! Stupenda! (Nadir laughed) Glorious! My dears, glorious!"

"Ahem!"

All went silent as Carlotta made her way to the centre of the stage, without any word of notice, dragging Christine to the front with her.  
"Monsieur Angier, if you please! Our duet."

"Signora?" Christine asked questioningly, "What do you-"

"Oh, my little flower, you and I will sing a duet to send this thing on its way! Your little Vicomte will be proud but this song is for you and me, madam. You and I will soar."

She tapped Christine on the nose smugly and waited for Beaufort to oblige her.

"But…" Christine shook her head, "I don't know the part – what are we doing?"

"Don't you worry, Madam Daae, you will know when the music starts…Monsieur Beaufort!"

"Signora…?" Beaufort nodded, baffled but no more so than Christine.

However, when Beaufort began to play the soft, opening notes of the old lullaby, Christine was transported.  
It was the song the corpse, the singers, the actors and every member of the Opera Populaire used to sing when the lights went out, when there was trouble, when things turned upside down. When all seemed right with the world – even when everything was still. It was a song that began in the shadows; a gentle hum from an unconscious thought that was joined by a passer-by who knew the words. So it went – soon enough, the whole house would be gently singing this gentle, little song. It would rise into the night and fade. Fade as if it had never been sung at all. All would be puzzled for only a moment before moving on with their lives.

It was a song that gave Christine great comfort in her most troubled of times. Even the Phantom did not know it. It was reserved only for the performers.

Without hesitation, Christine began to sing. It was not a long song.

 _In the twilight, when all the world is asleep  
The corpse wakes up and the dancers come,_

 _the corpse you see,  
The sea_

 _We roll in the waves, we roll with the ebbing tides  
Paris goes to bed but we dance and we sing  
We dance and we sing for we are made for time_

 _In the twilight, when all the world is asleep  
When the clocks chime and the festivities end  
And all are sought by dreams_

 _We sing on in the darkness, we sing on in those dreams,  
We sing songs of people dancing –  
A Parisian corpse by the sea_

Christine hadn't realised she had gone into a trans like state but she opened her eyes to the stillness she expected. The same that accompanied the wee moments following the end of the song. They always come.

Carlotta had harmonised with her the whole way. Nadir, Christine had found him first, looked stunned.  
Phillipe had moved forward into the light and looked positively riveted. Christine supposed a marriage proposal was being put together somewhere but for her or Carlotta was unclear.

The Diva squeezed Christine's hand proudly, whispering,  
"I knew you would remember! Do you know it was you who started it?"

Christine gave her a bewildered stare.  
"Me? What on earth –"

"Ah yes, you came with Giry. Singing that little song all the time. More so when you went to the crypts to pay your respects. I don't suppose you know your little voice travelled. Next thing you know, we all knew the song. Now it is legacy. You left a part of yourself behind without meaning too."

Christine thought a moment,  
"I always thought that it was a widely known Lullaby."

"Oh no," Carlotta shook her head knowingly, "No, dearest, that was all you."

Breaking their intimate moment, Angier clapped his hands only once, bringing to an end the trans everyone was in, some people starting, others blinking away their daze – confused thereafter.

"I think this evening will be one for the history books." He said bluntly.

Thus the evening so went. Perfect and memorable until at last it was one performance before Christine would find herself centre stage one more time. To be the shy little girl standing in front of Paris' most elite.

But Erik was nowhere. She shuffled as quietly as she could around backstage, searching, whispering down trap doors, calling for but getting no response. Panic was making her heart race. Singing without accompaniment before the cast was one thing and acceptable but before the masses was unthinkable and foolish.

Panic turned to rage as she soon realised that this flop would be because of Erik and no one else. He had promised her and abandoned her.  
"Damn you, Erik!" she whispered angrily into the void.

She was about to turn back and accept her situation. She had stunned the cast with just her voice, why not the rest of Paris?  
However, she did not get far before a frantic voice from within the very void she turned from caught her attention.

"You have too! Are you insane, man?" a rusty voice was stressing, "You abandon her now, I assure you it will not be the Comte you'll have to worry about!"

"Oh?" The other, Erik no doubt, said coolly, "And who will it be then, you? Nadir, you know full well you are no match. I've tried to kill you in the past – I won't hesitate to defend myself against you."

"You foul and loathsome fool!"

"Oh, please."

Christine marched back, seething.

She appeared before them as dramatically as she could, making sure her face was imitating her anger (Something that she was never particularly good at).

"He's absolutely right, Erik – you won't have to give a damn about Philippe because I will kill you if you do anything other than sing with me tonight."

Her rage was met with an appalled silence. Nadir was visibly taken aback by Christine's rather bold address. Erik suddenly looked as if he were about to cry – horribly ashamed.

Christine had no mind for that just then, though but the apparent threat of the Comte had her mind temporarily reeling. She had noticed peculiarities in his attitude toward a great many things but she had never thought to consider him a 'threat' to anything! If he was a threat in the past, well, it was different. Everyone is threat to someone else when one becomes protective. By God, was the Comte protective of his little brother!

"Don't you dare look at me like that when you were about to abandon me!"

"Christine, my love, I would –"

"Your 'love'?" Nadir's eyes widened.

Erik cast an uncertain glance at him, Christine fumed more.

"Your 'love' indeed, if you care at _all…_ Erik, you will do this with me. Not for Raoul, not for the audience, not for anyone else but yourself."

"I don't much care for myself…" he grumbled, ringing his hands, dropping his eyes and stepping away from Nadir whose own eyes had risen to the heavens.

"Then for me."

Both men returned their attention to Christine. She gazed steadily back at Erik, his tall frame seemed to crumble and close in on itself – all but disappearing into the darkness.

In the back of her mind, Christine was outrageously aware that the current act was coming to an end.  
Outrageously aware that she stepped over a very thin line she'd been balancing on for a week.  
She stretched out her hand, ignoring how Nadir stood quietly to the side as he watched Erik somewhat gravitate towards her, barely moving his feet to do so.

Christine felt herself calm down considerably once his bony hand had slipped into hers. She enclosed it tightly, securing her fingers so that they would not be easily escaped from. She gave him an assured nod and gentle smile. She began to draw him away from the dark, with her,

"You look dashing." She told him, hiding a blush. A necessary comment, she thought, to boost his confidence in facing a crowd who had forgotten about a ghost but were not accustomed to masked men. Necessary but sheepish.

"You always look beautiful."

She did not look back at him, in fact, she felt as if she wasn't truly meant to hear it. His voice sounded far away and he followed so easily. She got to the outskirts of the stage, gave his hand a squeeze and whispered,

"Don't leave me."

Then let go, aware of a light, lingering clutch before her hand was hers again. She rushed back to the wings, to the flustered looking staff – Angier was straightening his waistcoat, his face as white as a sheet, a cold sweat making his skin seem clammy.

He was nattering away at one of the stage-hands, gesticulating madly. The poor man looked beyond panicked.  
An empty stage and a restless crowd awaited his address for Christine was not there. She swiftly made her way to all the fidgeting cast – some gasping in relief at her arrival, some calling her name in dismay, some words of an angry mother or a disapproving look. She met Carlotta along the way. The older woman caught her wrist,

"Where have you been, you silly woman! No! Don't worry about him – you go to apologise, you will never make it to the stage. Go!"

"But-"

"Go!"

She pointed to the stage, an arm stretched right out an ending in the tip of her forefinger which was not to be argued with, the expression she used to accompany this gesture was not either. Christine obeyed, catching the eye of Angier just as he turned around.

His eyes widened and appeared to be unable to decide whether to be furious or relieved. It didn't matter.  
She walked out onto the stage without an introductory, without accompaniment. Without anything. She felt almost naked.  
It was a most unusual arrival and the crowd seemed to stop talking almost instantly.

A piano had been pushed out onto the stage to her right. The back curtains had been closed which covered the pandemonium of previous acts which allowed for a more formal and gracious performance.

She took a breath.

"I hope you don't mind." She told them all in a small voice, "I lost my accompaniment and I desperately needed to find him or I would never have sung at all."

Laughter, a small chuckle, fluttered about the auditorium. Her eyes began to seek out the comforts – she found the Comte De Chagny first. Up in box 4, he was looking down at her in a manner most serene, as if her lateness was hardly a bother.  
She held his gaze a moment longer than she intended before allowing her eyes to drift and find Nadir. He was standing at the back of the hall, by one of the exits.

She could not see his face in the dark but from what she could tell, his stance was of a nervous disposition.

"My accompaniment is one man. I apologise if this disappoints you now but I assure you," she glanced toward the piano, a shadow of movement having caught her eye, "He is quite remarkable."

An uncertain applause arose from the audience and lasted a few very brief moments before silence settled. The anticipation was heavy as Christine waited for the music to start. It lasted a life time.

She had to trust him to be there – she dare not turn and find out he wasn't. She would not be able to bare it.  
She closed her eyes.  
Then a gentle music indeed began to flow. Magnificent, gentle and loving and almost, not quite real as if it were a memory.

She counted in her head, 1, 2, 3 bars before she dared to open her mouth and sing.  
She _did_ sing. Freedom came in like fresh water and cleansed her soul of all the confusion, the uncertainty. Amidst the memory of music, rose the memory of Raoul and with the memory of Raoul all her most intimate memories that were of the two of them.

She remembered things like wiping away a crumb on his moustache and him stealing a kiss from the tip of her finger.  
The walks along the beach in which he had dared to splash her with sea water and she, in turn, had dared to laugh.  
She remembered his unique applauses at her performances.  
No one else was in these memories. It was reliving life with Raoul all over again and as her song came to an end, the memories began to fade. After the crescendo, all things seemed to settle in a melancholy and bittersweet end. When she opened her eyes, she felt her cheeks were damp and the stage lights hurt her vision.

An incredible silence followed and remained. She moved her gaze up to Philippe, he was sitting as far back as he could, in the shadows and out of sight.

Somewhere in her consciousness, someone closed a door. She wasn't sure if it was real or not but it didn't really matter – the door was closed. It did not need to open again. Not yet, at least.

Only then did the eruptive euphoria wash over her. The applause was obscene. She swore the building shook. She could feel the rumble climb up her legs.  
She curtsied and did all the requirements.

Then she was on the move. Erik had risen from his seat, standing stock-still as she approached him. She took his hand; his strangely delicate hand and pulled gently.

He resisted at first, Christine doing her very best not to let on that she was exerting herself in an effort to get him to follow her.

At last he followed, dumbstruck. Once she had pulled into the light and raised his hand above both their heads (Her shorter arms only managing to bring his arm up at a right angle – a rather awkward predicament), the applause seemed to grow even more fervent.

Almost impossible. Erik was suddenly terribly small.

"Bow!" she told him. Like an automated machine, he did so. Bending directly from his waist.

"Magnificent." She whispered again. He did not look at her. Instead, he bowed one last time on his own terms. He turned on his heal and left, dropping Christine's hand instantly.

She let him go. Finding Nadir to be rounding the outskirts of the Opera House and disappearing through his nearest exit.  
Christine grinned at the crowd, a smile so wide she thought her face would split. Philippe was on his feet too.  
It gave her more joy than she could ever have anticipated to see him applaud her.

She gave thanks and curtsied once again before retreating.

Angier met her with a flurry of words meant to put her in her place, thank her and express his relief. So many words, she hardly heard any of them.

Everyone else was chattering away excitedly, Carlotta was expressing her own anticipation at the thought of their duet. Christine, however, had found a perfect place of peace.  
Her song had ended, a door had closed and off Raoul went.

 **OoOoOoOoOoO**

Nadir rushed down the side of the auditorium, disappearing into the wings and dropping through the nearest trap-door.

The steps were damp and slippery in this part of the cellar. He almost lost his balance twice.

Ahead, Erik was pacing on the level below him.

"Erik!" he called, going down as quickly and as safely as he could manage.

Erik stopped but did not look up.  
Nadir did slip but within Erik's reach. Erik's thin arm shot out and grabbed Nadir's, stabilising him. He was visibly unimpressed with Nadir's lack of agility.  
He turned away to continue pacing.

"How are you?" Nadir asked after a beat, catching his breath, allowing his heart to slow after the acceleration of shock.  
Erik seemed to spring from across the way towards Nadir, grabbing the Persian's forearms,

"Magnificent! Everything, Nadir, _everything_ was perfect!"

Nadir felt his eyebrows raise but Erik appeared to take no notice, arms waving in emphasis of his euphoria. He spoke with little time for interruption.  
"She belongs with me, you know?" he told Nadir a matter-of-factly, sighing contentedly as he came to a gradual halt, gazing out into the dimly lit labyrinth of the cellars, "Yes…Christine belongs with me."

Nadir held his tongue. For…it seemed as if Erik might actually be right but caution! Caution, oh, so much caution.

"You were a marvel yourself, my friend." He told Erik instead, allowing himself to smile.

"You think so?"

The Phantom's response was so whimsical, so very far away that Nadir concluded that he could have told Erik that the King had abdicated his throne and France had quite suddenly gone to the pits – and it would hardly have mattered.

Then the sound of a trap-door above them closing caused Nadir to jump and Erik to look up, hmm'ing to himself.

"What's that?" Nadir whispered fearfully.

"Oh…probably Monsieur Le Comte."

"What?! Erik, I promise you, I –"

"Calm down, Daroga, the Comte found me out earlier this afternoon. I'm expecting him."

"WHAT?!"

"Shout any louder and the drama of it all will be lost!" Erik snapped.

"This is not a game, Erik." Nadir seethed, "We must go!"

"Yes, we most certainly should." He turned back Nadir, no doubt grinning beneath his mask, "We don't want to miss Christine out-sing the Diva, now do we?"

"But…Monsieur Le Comte…"

"He can come too if you like."

He brushed past Nadir and began to climb the stairs unhurriedly. Nadir, stunned, followed numbly after.  
As they ascended, the footsteps above them did the opposite until at last it was to be stand-off. Erik came to a halt.

Nadir was shaking – he couldn't remember a time when he had been this nervous about meeting an adversary. Perhaps because it wasn't an adversary. It was Philippe. Nadir rubbed his hands over his face, trying to rub away the fear but fear never worked like that.

Perhaps one day it would.

He took another step up, placing himself a step or so behind and to the left of Erik, keeping close to the wall. Picking sides again.  
The steps came carefully, carefully. Remarkably sure of themselves.

Erik glanced down at Nadir,

"Coming awfully slowly, isn't he?"

Nadir scowled.

Then the intruder came into view below the dim hew of the gas lamp. Draped most unceremoniously in what can only be described as rags.  
Suddenly their feet were descended upon by a hoard of rats. Nadir couldn't have jumped higher if he tried.

Cursing loudly and without much thought to Allah, Nadir latched onto Erik.

Erik only laughed,  
"The rat-catcher! Why, Daroga, we should have known. Monsieur Le Comte would never have been this utterly careful in his pursuit of me. Come on, we'll be late."

"What?" Nadir gave him a look so aghast but Erik was already moving, bowing most uncharacteristically for the 'Rat-Catcher'.

"Bonsoir, Monsieur…" grumbled the man as he shuffled past Erik without looking at him. He glanced at Nadir but Nadir didn't think he was truly seen.

"Bonsoir, indeed!" Erik commented and continued to climb except he took a peculiar left turn into the wall moments before the ladder to the trap doors.

"Erik?"

"Come! Quickly now, Nadir."

Nadir rose and rose until the hole in the wall where Erik had disappeared through was before him. Nadir hesitated before entering. The wall grinded shut behind him.

"Fear not, I normally make the way in the dark. I know it like the back of my hand but you don't much like the dark do you, Daroga? I imagine you believe all your demons will materialise before you in the dark."

"I worry more about your demons," Nadir answered tersely, "I know what to do with my demons. No one, not even you, knows what to do with yours."

Erik chuckled before illuminating the darkness, making Nadir squint. Before them was a corridor that seemed to stretch on for a life-time and yet the amount of time it took to walk to the end of it was peculiarly quick.

Nadir stepped down into a vast stone chamber, candles littered its outer-rim and cast a warm light about the room. Some were dead, some were sitting in a pool of wax and others looked newly lit. A cold draft and ethereal music wafted in from above them before slowly fading, making Nadir shiver. Soon thereafter came the woops and applause of the crowd.

He looked up,  
"What's that there?"

Erik followed his gaze, returning to the middle of the room have just lit another candle, spying what appeared to be a rectangular drainage pipe on the roof.

"That, my dear Daroga, is how I first heard Ms Daae sing. This room is the best to place to be. The room is round, you will have observed," Erik explained, "The music filters down through there, you see and _because_ the room is round, the sound travels better and thus it is like an extra-ordinarily pleasant echo. It was put there to filter out the rain water I believe but apparently it never rains. It does wonders for the filtering of the opera music, though."

He turned and seemed to float around the room, the flames of each candle he passed bending in his wake.

"But the sound would be even better if I could carpet the room – the fabric would do to soften the sound, you see."

"We are directly under the stage, then?" Nadir asked, placing his hands behind his back.

"Yes." Erik, placed a thoughtful finger over what one could only assume were his lips, "Where, I wonder, could I acquire some good carpets? Persia might be a very good idea."

"Your jest is in poor taste, Erik."

"Maybe so, but I still need the carpets."

The music that began, after the applause had died and Carlotta and Christine had been introduced, instantly transported Nadir far and away. He found himself by the sea, watching the waves gently break against the shore. In the depths was a ballet. As this corpse danced merrily, oblivious to the firmness of the sea, Christine's voice, in harmony with Carlotta's, ebbed and flowed with the current. A surge of brilliance before quieting down and allowing the imagery of the sea to simply roll away with the tide.

Nadir was surprised to find himself dry and relatively warm. He blinked away the last of his dreams and turned to Erik.  
He was staring rather brazenly at him,

"It's beautiful, isn't it?"

Nadir didn't trust himself to speak.

Erik didn't appear to need an answer. He glanced up at the little drain before leaving the room. Returning only to get Nadir to follow him. Nadir who found himself glued to the spot.

Nadir couldn't get any of it out of his head until they walked up into the light – the applause louder than it had ever been. Carlotta and Christine were taking their bows. Christine was as humble as ever – childish even. Carlotta never changed but her fire had come back. She was magnificent and shining. Nadir even had to blink twice and rethink his initial thoughts of desire.

"The gala, then." Erik broke into his thoughts. Had made their way to the top of the stage, looking down on the stage. The stage hands had all filtered down to the stage. One was left but he was asleep, a sturdy bottle of whisky at his feet. Nadir smirked. There was always one.

"Erik."

Erik had begun to walk away. Nadir held his breath a moment. Something about the Phantom had changed. A subtle change. The euphoria had gone.

"Daroga?"

"Will you be daring enough to face the crowd? I –"

"I sang. Is that not enough?" he asked sharply.

Nadir stalled. Blinking away his confusion, he tried again,

"I think you should. Christine –"

"Christine has sung too. Her Vicomte is on his merry way to heaven…or to hell. The door is closed. I do not wish to spend any more time with that foul lot of Parisians. If Christine would like to see me, she can find me herself."

"What's gone wrong now?" Nadir asked quietly, just as Nadir had taken two more steps.

"Nothing at all. I'm just willing to have the door shut on me. Again. Send my regards to her, if you would."

Nadir didn't try to stop him. Instead he turned his back and made his way back down to the roaring crowds that were beginning to fill up the foyer. The masquerade masks were out, the alcohol was flowing, people were happy.

Nadir watched people dance and laugh – the girls trying to gain favour with the elite men, the men trying to get closer to the Diva's of the show. Carlotta was surrounded and enjoying the attention. Nadir chuckled.

Christine was sipping on a glass of wine in the corner. The Comte was standing quietly to her left but Nadir got the feeling that no words had been exchanged. Perhaps the Comte had yet to make his presence known. When Christine spotted him, frowning at her, she frowned back and made her way towards him.

He smiled when she finally arrived but said nothing.

"What did you think?" she asked shyly.

"Mademoiselle, you were beyond all expectation of wonder."

"Thank you, Nadir."

"SHE WAS MARVELOUS!" Angier boomed, more than a little tipsy, "Magnificent! And, might I add, I have been approached by the Royals."

Nadir nodded, feeling a genuine feeling of awe,

"What did they want?"

"Oh I don't know. I'm too drunk to care now! What a night, my friend! They left me with written instructions, though."

"I hope they're safe." Nadir urged fondly.

Angier tapped his left breast pocket,

"Oh yes." Then he spotted Christine, "Ah! And where is your man?"

"Which one?" Christine glanced at Nadir.

"Oh, well, look at you. I mean your maestro, of course."

"Yes, Monsieur." Christine giggled, "I don't know. I was hoping Monsieur Kahn would tell me."

"Nadir?" Angier turned an expectant look.

"He was reluctant to join us." Nadir relented, "To put it lightly."

He caught Christine's eye but it was brief.

"Oh, what a shame." Angier said without too much remorse at all and simply wafted away. Dissolving into the crowd.

Christine and Nadir gazed at each other before Christine put her glass down on a passing tray and excused herself. Away from Nadir, she too wafted but not into the crowd. The corner where the Comte had been standing was empty.

 **OoOoOoOoOoO**

"Monsieur le Fantom."

Erik turned. The Comte was coming carefully down the stairs towards where he stood, contemplating the stillness of the water and the row boat that floated atop of it.

"Ah, Monsieur." The Phantom felt his breast pocket briefly, content with what he found there, "Bonsoir."

* * *

 **Please do review. Have a lovely weekend, otherwise.**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N Finally made it. Excuse the lack of anything for so long and the massive inconsistencies in updates but know that I've been doing my utmost to keep on top of everything - only just managing.  
But thank you for sticking with me and with this. Here's your end - I hope it works for ya.**

* * *

Erik felt suddenly tired – more tired than he had ever been as the Comte descended the stairs, unhurried.

"I've come for our civilised talk, Monsieur." He told Erik casually though his left coat breast was considerably (And ominously) lower than his right.

"Yes. Although what you have come to talk about seems not to be here…unless she is hiding…in which case, ha ha, Monsieur, shame on me. But I think it not so. Please then, take into consideration that I have walked down these many dismal steps alone."

"I have taken that into account, Sir." The Comte nodded agreeably, "But I have also taken into consideration that it will not be beyond you to go back up. You know her movements well enough."

"I most certainly do and most of that without her consent I admit. Still, I have no intention to go back up to Mademoiselle Daae. My days of chasing her around are over. I'm too old for that now. Perhaps you are too?"

"I'm no child. Monsieur but I do this for my brother more than anything else."

"It's alright to admit otherwise, Monsieur. Apart from the fact that it is not the first time that my opponent has been a much-better-looking-than-I-De Chagny, I feel no need to defend myself against you. You're annoying – I don't much like you snooping about but other than that – I don't much care for your feelings. If you care for her, then do so. But don't decide to kill me on account of your misguidance."

Philippe grew stony. His countenance grew more defensive. Erik cursed his mouth and his inability to be empathetic. But the truth was blatantly obvious – he truly did not care. That time seemed to have come and gone.

"My feelings towards Ms Daae are irrelevant in this matter." The Comte said sharply.

"Are they? I would never have guessed." Erik shrugged and but not once did he move his feet. He was determined to stay planted to the ground.

Phillipe dared to take a step closer. Erik gently slipped his hand into the lining of his coat pocket and let it rest. Phillipe stopped his approach almost instantly. Well aware.

He smiled,

"Seems you have come just as prepared as I have."

"I come prepared for defence, Monsieur. I don't really care if you live or die but if you allow me to live, I'll give you the same courtesy."

"You see…Erik," Philippe removed the revolver from his coat and let it hang limply in his hand, "I understand Christine has some kind of twisted obligatory attachment to you but you use that 'punjab' of yours for so many different reasons."

Erik cocked his said,

"I'm not sure what you mean…"

"The 'Punjab lasso' – the ever present weapon in all the Phantom fables," Philippe explained with mock excitement, "A literal lasso designed to kill and then of course the true story of how you reeled in Christine…"

"I did not use this on her, Monsieur, you forget yourself." It was Erik's turn to be sharp, instinctively, he dropped his chin to peer up at Philippe from beneath his brow – a more menacing gaze he had mastered over the years. The Comte remained unfazed.

"No, Monsieur, I know you don't but your manipulation might as well have been that Punjab you keep so close." Philippe shook his hand suddenly, as if clearing a smog no one but he could see, "It doesn't matter now. Monsieur…"

Quite suddenly, quite astonishingly, Philippe's hardened features seemed close to tears, his eyes growing wet with a singular tear that managed to escape. The Comte looked older, gaunter, more exhausted.

"I've come here to protect everything I hold dear – all I have left. I don't know you, I never have. All I have to remind me of you is Christine and the memory of my brother. In between, this baron land of neither here-nor there that had Christine going round in circles in search of you and not my brother and NOT of me."

"What have you come here to do, Sir?" Erik cocked his head did not remove his hand from the Punjab.

"To speak civilly. To ask, gently – if not with a little bit of emphasis," he glanced down at his weapon, "To simply leave us all alone. I cannot have the threat of that Punjab lingering over the heads of my family."

"Is that all you ask, Monsieur?" Erik's confusion was evident on his face, if only it wasn't so twisted for the Comte to see.

"I needed this moment. I needed to talk to you. Face to face. To the see the man you are."

"Are you satisfied?"

"I don't know yet. That might very much depend on your answer. I'm not going to lie and tell you I'm not angry – but I would never wish for anyone to be dead. I'm long past that now but I, like you, will not hesitate to go to great lengths to protect the people I love."

"Ah…well," Erik felt his shoulders droop, "I'm afraid that I cannot guarantee your life as 'Punjab-free'. If Christine comes looking for me, I will not hide from her."

"Can you guarantee that you would not go looking for her?"

Erik didn't answer the Comte. He wanted to say 'yes' with such a desperation and yet the truth was that he felt that he and Christine had connected more now than ever. There was an innocent awareness of each other that had begun to grow. He'd be a fool to let that go. He'd be a bigger fool to deny the simple fact that his love for Christine had never gone away. It would never go away.

The Comte nodded wearily.

"All the more reason." The Comte lifted the revolver a fraction, an ever dormant threat, before once again lowering it.

"Monsieur, it seems there really is only one way for this to end. A dual – I suppose. But I request one thing."

"Go ahead, then." It was the Comte's turn to cock his head.

"Face me when you pull the trigger and when I walk away 10 paces, do not shoot me in the back. I'd like to die a man."

The Comte bowed and watched as Erik turned but called him back,

"The light is dim – I might ask the same thing."

Erik snorted,  
"You're the one with the gun, Monsieur. Surely you don't believe me to be so quick with a piece of rope that I could beat a bullet."

The Comte dared a shadow of a smile.  
"I'm not so naïve as to believe you will not use your resources wisely."

Erik looked about him. The Comte was right. It was dimly lit, Erik was good at blending in with the darkness, his thin frame lending itself well in his favour. There was every possibility that the Comte would miss his shot (And according to the law of dual – he only had one) because of it. Fair was fair. He had a gun. Erik had the darkness. They were on equal ground.

"Very well – we won't toss a coin, Monsieur, I have none. I'll give you the first move."

The Comte said nothing. Erik turned again and walked away, his back to the Comte, giving way for a little bit of trust.  
He was doing better than his brother, Erik thought pointedly. His shoulder tingled where the Vicomte's stray bullet had grazed the skin. He was trespassing to be sure but he was unarmed and the boy knew exactly who it was that stood at his window. Yet he still shot to kill. Luckily he was poor shot.

Erik reached his spot, somewhat grateful for the Comte's courtesy. He placed himself in the spot with the most light though the lantern was in its twilight hours anyway.

"I believe I am ready when you are." Erik told him casually. Christine cascading into his thoughts like water, flooding his mind and his soul. Erik didn't want to die. He thought briefly to go back on his word – lie for life one last time but it was life that had taught him to be a better man. He owed it his honesty.  
He waited. Watched as the Comte raised his revolver and squinted.

"1, 2, 3…."

Just then, without warning, a burst of colour and a wave of brunette curls halted everything. Christine, quite literally came screaming in.

"NO! No, PHILIPPE! You can't, I won't let you!" She almost went barrelling over the last precipice to disappear into the darkness.

The Comte, in this moment, seemed stunned. His grip on his pistol tightened, his knuckles going white in the strain.

"Get out of the way, Christine," he told her harshly. Erik stood silently to the back. Christine's arrival had meant his doom. The courtesy the Comte had shown before, the compassion, even, was gone.

"No…" she answered back, daring to stretch her arms out to further protect him. 'Him' – Erik. The Phantom blinked into the dim light, Christine surely a dream standing between him and the Comte to protect him. Surely she knew that he was perfectly capable of protecting himself. Erik could only come up with one logical conclusion and yet he dare not believe it.

"Christine –"

"You do this and you will be no better!" she retorted angrily. This hurt the Comte, Erik could see in the way he recoiled. The pistol didn't falter but his body seemed to bend due to an unseen force.

"You may be right but sacrifices must be made."

He cocked his pistol and took aim over Christine's shoulder. She went rigid – disbelief pouring from her every being. Erik, himself, was appalled that the Comte would dare take a shot over her shoulder.

"Are you so desperate to have me killed?" Erik seethed, reaching out to move Christine to find she was decidedly immovable. Finding it thus, he whispered,

"Christine…please."

"NO!" she roared back at him and he instinctively removed his hands from her waist, "How dare you, Philippe!"

"Hold still and it'll be easier." The Comte told her simply.

The moment of tension was pulled so taught, Erik, for once, was at a loss of what to do. With Christine in the way, he would never be able to use his lasso to save either of them. He closed his eyes and reached for her hand. Her soft and silky hand that had a callous just below the last joint of her ring-finger.

"Monsieur Le Comte."

All eyes turned again. Nadir had arrived though he was unhurried. The calm about him was uncanny. Behind him, Angier crept down one step at a time, looking bewildered.

The Comte's eyes grew wide. Erik was surprised to say the least. He was destined to die alone had three people – one of which he loved to the ends of the earth and back – guess his impending fate and come to his aid. Three. Three more than he could ever have hoped for.

"Monsieur Kahn? What the devil? Leave! This is between Monsieur Erik and myself. Take Madam Daae with you."

"I most certainly will. Madam?"

The last of her colour drained from her face. Erik laughed a laugh full of mirth,

"And I here I was thinking you've come to rescue me."

"I have." Nadir told him simply. "I've come for you both. This is Monsieur Angier's theatre too, so you have a witness. Who will be the better man, eh? Madam,"

Nadir offered his hand, a far more calloused palm greeted them both, Christine and Erik. It was the palm of a man so sure of who he was and what his place was.

Christine seemed to gravitate towards it but then stopped, looking into his eyes,

"I can't – "

"It is time to face the truth, Madam." Nadir urged, breaching the small distance left between her hand and his and grasping it firmly but never daring to pull.

"This is all on your head just as much as it is on theirs."

"She has nothing to say!" Philippe cut in, calling everyone's attention back to his now shaking pistol. Erik stared the barrel down. Christine had moved enough for him to have a clear shot and the Comte wasn't looking.

He ruffled his coat pocket, allowing a firmer grasp. Counting in his head.

"Christine." Nadir called her name urgently. Erik's eyes flittered to meet his, finding Nadir was aware of his intentions but did nothing but try to probe the truth out of Christine.

"Monsieur!" Angier pleaded with Philippe, "Please…"

"This doesn't involve you, Angier. You'd do well to scurry back up to your office!" The Comte spat, silencing the Manager.

Then the two men locked eyes. Erik shuddered. Philippe panicked.

Angier – the brave fool, took a large step forward.

"ANGIER?" Nadir roared, dragging Christine toward him even as she turned back.

A loud ringing exploded in all their ears. The spark of the little pistol momentarily blinding. Erik froze, shutting his eyes, waiting for death – waiting for anything!  
Silence was around him. Such a silence he had never experienced before. An awed silence, a shocked and unfathomable silence. The silence of a dream.

Opening his eyes, he found Angier on the ground, unmoving but in a position most unlikely of death. Hands wrapped about his head.  
Then Erik's vision shifted to Nadir, his grip on Christine's wrist like iron just as hers was on his. Both looked perplexed. There was nothing more Erik wanted then than to fly to Christine's side. By God he was alive and never before had he been so relieved.

Philippe. The Comte De Chagny. Whatever happened to him?

Erik turned his gaze once again, slowly – somewhat fearful of what he might find. A dead man. A hole in the head. A collapsed and lifeless body.

But no. No, the Comte was standing quite solidly with two feet planted assuredly on the ground, confident in their ability to carry the weight of his body.

His eyes were remarkably calm. A resolve in them that brought him back full circle. The Comte Philippe De Chagny had been lost a long time and now he had found his way back.  
The pistol barrel aimed at the sky, the smoke still spiralling out of its nose. His breathing was laboured.

"Good God!" Angier's rattled voice rose up a little more than a whisper from the ground. He got to his knees, reaching for Nadir's hand as the Persian offered it to him uncertainly, eyes darting between him and the Comte.

"That was foolish, Sir." Philippe told the manager quietly. "Foolish indeed."

"Yes well, I'm a man." Angier responded breathlessly, not quite believing he had survived.

Erik caught the Comte's eye,  
"I could say we're all fools here."

"No." The Comte lowered his weapon and shook his head, "No, there is only one fool; me."

"I dare say…" Nadir answered. The Comte dropped his gaze sheepishly before mustering the courage to address Erik.

"I would never have been able to shoot you, Monsieur. I don't hate you. I don't even _know_ you."

Erik raised his eyebrows. Acknowledging the defeated countenance of the Comte as he continued,  
"All I have is a few twisted memories of something I can't place, ghost stories, my brother and…" he sighed, "No small amount of jealousy."

He turned a tired smile to Christine. She looked so scared, so little. So like the young woman Erik was first drawn too.

"I don't want you to love him. I don't want you to love anyone but me but what can I do?" the Comte shrugged, "Shoot him. But apparently I don't have the stuff for that."

"There's no shame in that, Monsieur…" Nadir comforted him cautiously, his expression still weary. Until the Comte put the pistol down, all nerves were on the alert.

"No. But there's shame. Shame from…from…"

"Believe me, Monsieur," Erik suddenly dared to say, drawing attention and removing his lasso, "You don't know shame. You do know a fair amount about bravery. You aimed for the sky, Sir, whereas I had intended to kill you. If I had a hat, I'd remove it. I hope my Punjab is enough."

He threw it away into the dark, a little red rope bending this way and that as it took flight.

The Comte locked his pistol and handed it, handle first, to Angier. The manager took it with no small amount of cluelessness. The man was certainly not meant for war and Erik hoped that another Revolution would not come soon. The man would be useless – but brave.

"A deuce, Monsieur." The Comte bowed, "Christine… I'm sorry."

A moment passed between them all before the Comte seemed to draw everything back to himself, smoothing back his hair,  
"Well, fair is fair. You will write, won't you?"

He was looking at Christine. She nodded numbly, eyes still as wide as saucepans. She allowed him to take her hand and kiss it gently, perhaps lingering a little longer than was necessary before moving on.

He nodded at Nadir and placed a hand on Angier's shoulder. The man was still examining the pistol when he did so.

"I - " he tried to say but the Comte shook his head.

"There are no need for goodbyes, Monsieur. Allow me to come and watch some more of your marvellous shows, yes?"

"But of course." The manager answered mechanically, "Of course, of course, yes."

"Christine?" he called back to her.

Christine, having finally found a little bit of sense back into her being, looked up expectantly,

"Please," The Comte asked her genuinely, his hands locking behind his back, "do write."

She nodded,  
"I will. Of course, I will."

"Good." He smiled, dared a glance at Erik but said nothing and ascended up towards to the light. He never did come back to the theatre.

 **OoOoOoOo**

Nadir watched the Comte walk back up the stairs. He seemed to walk without thought – or perhaps too much of it.  
He turned back to Christine. She appeared to be in a daze, her eyes brighter than was the norm, staring up after Philippe. His shoes disappeared around a corner until all that could be heard were his steady footsteps. But, in the moments following his departure, even those faded into oblivion.

Christine's eyes then dropped to the ground, her brow furrowed while Erik stared longingly at her without uttering a word.

Angier was the first to move. Nadir swore the man was tiptoeing as he gestured for Nadir to follow him. Nadir did so but not before he eyes up the two lost lovers one final time.

Angier and he climbed the stairs in silence until they reached a point where the buzz of life reached them, an occasional laughter ringing out louder than the rest, a scream of delight piercing the halls of the theatre.

"Well," Angier turned to Nadir awkwardly, "that was…that's that, then."

Nadir nodded, allowing himself to puff out his amusement but lacking the energy to form a full smile.

"That's that. Will you be going back to the party then, Monsieur?" He asked.

"Oh yes," Angier's eyes widened briefly, "I need stiff one, Monsieur. I need many. I take it you won't be."

"No," Nadir frowned, thinking, "No, I need some time now."

"I see. Oh well, do me a favour, Monsieur. Come back tomorrow morning, I'll need to clean this place up. No cleaners and this lot won't leave until the early hours. I could use a hand…"

Nadir peered at the hopeful manager from beneath his brow before letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding,  
"Of course, Benoit. You can buy me a drink later then. We'll go out for lunch."

"Tis a deal." Angier held out his hand which Nadir took. The gentlemen held each-other's grasps quite firmly, a mutual reluctance to let go. Nadir didn't realise he was quite as rattled as he was. What a night.

But they did and Angier ambled back into the crowd of people. A little less alive than before. Nadir suspected Angier had as much to think about as he did but just wasn't ready to face it head on yet.

Nadir respected that and made his own way back to his hotel.

 **OoOoOooO**

The following morning, Nadir made his way over to the hotel where Christine was staying, taking note of an empty hall way and open door to a room where Comte De Chagny had stayed. He had left immediately then.

Nadir knocked on Christine's door and was bade entrance by her pleasant but quiet voice. She didn't look up from packing her back when he entered. In fact she seemed quite focused on it, as if packing everything just so was what her life depended on.

"Are you well, Madam?"

"Mmm…quite, yes. Hold this." She handed him a handkerchief folded atop a balloon of a frock while she went to her cupboards and brought out another dress to put in her back prior to the one Nadir held. She then relieved him of his duties and stuffed the frock in. She was upset. Nadir could see.

"May I enquire as to –"

"Philippe is gone. No note. Nothing. I expected him to be here in the morning but…" she looked up, a hurt expression on her face, "He wasn't. Evidently."

Nadir nodded, rolling his lips, unsure of how to respond. In his mind, the Comte leaving was no surprise at all. But he could not speak for Christine. Nor any woman. He was wrong on just about every assumption he made about them. All the time. Nadir was only a man, just as baffled by feminine genetics as the rest of the male species. His wife had confused him enough, he daren't try understand the young woman before him.

"I don't believe he is gone from your life…"

"It feels that way. Did you see the way he left?" She plopped down on the bed beside her bag, letting the handkerchief was holding fall from her hands to the floor. A stray tear endeavoured to roll down her cheek but it was quickly wiped away. Yet, it was followed by another, then another and Christine gave up.

Nadir moved to her side, sitting down gently beside her.

"He will come back – depending on your circumstance, of course."

Christine wiped her nose, turning confusedly to him,  
"My circumstance?"

"Well, forgive me Madam, but what happened between you and Erik? That circumstance, I mean."

She blushed. She blushed deep and tried to hide it. She fiddled with her fingers and suddenly Nadir didn't want to know though he found the concept bewildering. He shied briefly, clearing his throat.

"Well, I trust you two will be happy but maybe you should then concede to the notion that you may never see le Comte Philippe again. Not unless you reach out to him. But I warn you, it might not be the fairest of things to do. Or the wisest, if Erik has anything to say about it. Allow him to move on. Time. Time is important. And I can never stress this enough; caution."

"Oh," Christine let out a nervous but threatening laugh, if ever there was such a thing, "I've spoken long and hard with him about all of this including my feelings." She softened, her tears coming still but in thinner, more delicate streams with longer intervals,

"But the truth is the truth. Be it love or…something else entirely…my life isn't much without him in it. The world seems just that much bigger."

"Well…you and I, I suppose, are in an agreement there. I feel the same way. To a certain extent, of course."

Christine giggled, sniffing away the last of her tears,  
"I expect he'll be here soon. We're going away."

"Where too?"

"I don't know. You know how Erik is, but I trust somewhere nice and far away."

Nadir smiled at her. They shared an agreeable silence, content in each other's company before Nadir slapped his thighs and stood up.

"Well, Madam, I must go. I'm afraid I made a friend amidst all of this. I promised to help him clean up his theatre just as he has agreed to buy me a drink – and lunch, though, I don't believe he knows that part yet."

"That's very kind."

"Yes…perhaps too kind." Nadir pursed his lips, then bowed, "Adieu, Mademoiselle, safe travels."

"Monsieur Kahn."

"Madam."

"Thank you."

Nadir left Christine to pack feeling lighter. He bid the lobby boy a good day and walked out into the sunlight. He paused to enjoy it's warmth, closing his eyes as a gentle breeze blew and bustled though his hair – what was left of it, anyway. It blew away a heavy burden. He blinked into the light as he opened his eyes and watched it go, a lone little leaf as it got blown round a corner and out of sight.

Nadir felt an immense gratitude.  
Gratitude for life and the allowance to live it.

* * *

 **A/N last note - please leave one last review and if you've just arrived a million years from when this story was finished or if you finished it only a week or two after or whatever, please, leave a review then too. All the bestest for the new year. :)**


End file.
